GIFT  OF 
Mrs.   Emersson 


IF  WINTER 
DON'T 

ABCDI:  r 

NQTSOMUCI1INGON 


BY 

BARRY  PAIN 


NEW  YORK 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved 


9^  $  . 


t- 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


<?£' 


These  parodies  do  good  to  the  book 
parodied;  great  good,  sometimes;  they 
are  kindly  meant,  and  the  parodist  has 
usually  keenly  enjoyed  the  book  of  which 
he  sits  down  to  make  a  fool. 

R.  L.  STEVENSON. 


PREFATORY  NOTE 

I 

"!F  WINTER  COMES"  placed  its  author  not  only  as  a 
Best  Seller,  but  as  one  of  the  Great  Novelists  of  to-day. 
Not  always  are  those  royalties  crowned  by  those  laurels. 
Tarzan  (of,  if  I  remember  rightly,  the  Apes)  never 
won  the  double  event.  And  I  am  told  by  superior 
people  that,  intellectually,  Miss  Ethel  M.  Dell  takes  the 
hindmost.  Personally,  I  found  "If  Winter  Comes"  a 
most  sympathetic  and  interesting  book.  I  think  there 
are  only  two  points  on  which  I  should  be  disposed  to 
quarrel  with  it.  Firstly,  though  Nona  is  a  real  creation, 
Effie  is  an  incredible  piece  of  novelist's  machinery. 
Secondly,  I  detest  the  utilization  of  the  Great  War  at 
the  present  day  for  the  purposes  of  fiction.  It  is  alto- 
gether too  easy.  It  buys  the  emotional  situation  ready- 
made.  It  asks  the  reader's  memory  to  supplement  the 
writer's  imagination.  And  this  is  not  my  sole  objection 
to  its  use. 

II 

I  wonder  if  I  might,  without  being  thought  blas- 
phemous, say  a  word  or  two  about  the  Great  Novelists 
of  to-day.  They  have  certain  points  of  resemblance. 
I  do  not  think  that  over-states  it. 


yi  PREFACE 

They  have  the  same  little  ways.  They  divide  their 
chapters  into  sections,  and  number  the  sections  in  plain 
figures.  This  is  quite  pontifical,  and  lends  your  story 
the  majesty  of  an  Act  of  Parliament.  The  first  man 
who  did  it  was  a  genius.  And  the  other  seven  hundred 
and  eighteen  showed  judgment.  I  propose  to  use  it 
myself  when  I  remember  it. 

Then  there  is  the  three-dot  trick.  At  one  time  those 
dots  indicated  an  omission.  To-day,  some  of  our  best 
use  them  as  an  equivalent  of  the  cinema  fade-out. 
Those  dots  prolong  the  effect  of  a  word  or  sentence; 
they  lend  it  an  afterglow.  You  see  what  I  mean? 
Afterglow  .  .  . 

One  must  mention,  too,  the  staccato  style — the  style 
that  makes  the  printer  send  the  boy  out  for  another 
hundred  gross  of  full-stops.  All  the  Great  Novelists 
of  to-day  use  it,  more  or  less. 

Ill 

Let  us  see  what  can  be  done  with  it.  Here,  for 
instance,  is  a  sentence  which  was  taught  me  in  the 
nursery,  for  its  alleged  tongue-twisting  quality: 
"She  stood  at  the  door  of  Burgess's  fish-sauce  shop, 
Strand,  welcoming  him  in."  In  that  form  it  is  not 
impressive,  but  now  note  what  one  of  these  staccato 
merchants  might  make  of  it. 

"Across  the  roaring  Strand  red  and  green  lights 
spelling  on  the  gloom.  'BURGESS'S  FISH-SAU.' 
A  moment's  darkness  and  again  'BURGESS'S  FISH- 


PREFACE  vii 

SAU.'  Like,  that.  Truncated.  The  final  —CE  not 
functioning.  He  had  to  look  though  it  hurt  him.  Hurt 
horrible.  Damnably.  And  his  eyes  traveled  down- 
ward. 

"Suddenly  and  beyond  hope  she !  Isobel-at-the-last. 
Standing  in  the  doorway.  White  on  black.  Slim. 
Willowy.  Incomparable.  Incommensurable.  She  saw 
him  and  her  lips  rounded  to  a  call.  He  sensed  it 
through  the  traffic.  Come  in.  Calling  and  calling. 
Come  in. 

"Come  in.    ... 

"Out  of  the  rain." 

It  is  like  a  plaintive  hymn  sung  to  a  banjo  accom- 
paniment. 

Incidentally  it  illustrates  another  favorite  trick  of 
these  gentlemen — the  introduction  of  a  commonplace 
or  even  jarring  detail  into  a  romantic  scene  in  order 
to  increase  its  appearance  of  reality.  It  is  quite  a  good 
trick. 

IV 

And  sometimes,  not  every  day  but  sometimes,  one 
gets  a  little  weary  even  of  the  best  tricks.  Need  the 
author  depend  quite  so  much  on  the  printer  for  his 
effects?  Scenes  and  passages  in  a  book  seem  to  be 
standing  very  near  the  edge,  and  the  wanton  thought 
occurs  to  one  that  a  little  shove  would  send  them  over. 
In  fact,  one  gets  irritable.  And  then  anything  bad 
may  happen.  This  parody  for  instance. 


IF    WINTER  DON'T 


CHAPTER  I 

LUKE  SHARPER.  Age,  thirty-four.  Married,  but  not 
much.  Private  residence,  Jawbones,  Halfpenny  Hole, 
Surrey.  Favorite  recreation,  suffering.  Favorite 
flower 

Oh,  drop  it !  Let  us  rather  listen  to  Mr.  Alfred  Jingle, 
solicitor,  talking  to  his  artist  friend. 

"Met  Sharper  yesterday.  Remember  him  at  the  old 
school?  Flap  Sharper  we  called  him.  Not  that  they 
really  did  flap.  His  ears,  I  mean.  They  just  crept  up 
and  bent  over  when  he  was  thinking  hard.  People 
came  to  see  it.  Came  from  miles  around. 

"Rum  chap.  Rum  ways.  Never  agreed  with  anybody 
present,  including  himself.  Always  inventing  circum- 
stantial evidence  to  convict  himself  of  crimes  he  had 
never  committed.  Remember  the  window  ?  Half -brick 
came  flying  through  it.  Old  Borkins  looked  out.  Below 
stood  Flap  Sharper  with  the  other  half -brick  in  his 
hand.  Arm  drawn  back.  No  other  boy  in  sight.  The 
two  halves  fitted  exactly.  It  certainly  looked  like  it. 


fc  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

Poor  old  Flap  found  that  it  felt  like  it,  too.  But  he  had 
never  chucked  that  half -brick.  Ogilvie  did  it.  Remem- 
ber hrm  ?  The  one  we  called  Pink-eye.  Have  a  drink  ? 

"I  offered  Sharper  my  sympathy.  Wouldn't  have  it. 
Said  'Why?'  Maintained  that  we  had  all  got  to  suffer 
in  this  life,  and  it  was  better  to  begin  early.  Excellent 
practice.  Then  his  ears  crept  up  and  bent  over.  Got 
it  again  later  in  the  day  for  drawing  a  caricature  of  old 
Borkins.  Never  did  it,  of  course.  Couldn't  draw. 
Can't  remember  who  did  it.  Oh,  you  did,  did  you? 
Like  you.  Have  another  ? 

"Yes,  we  have  a  certain  amount  of  business  in  Dilbor- 
ough.  I'm  generally  down  there  once  or  twice  a  year. 
I  walk  over  to  Halfpenny  Hole  and  lunch  with  Sharper. 
It's  a  seven  mile  walk.  But  lunch  at  the  hotel  is  seven- 
and-six.  Doing  uncommonly  well,  is  Sharper.  He's 
in  Pentlove,  Postlethwaite  and  Sharper.  You  know. 
The  only  jams  that  really  matter.  Pickles,  too.  Chut- 
ney. Very  hot  stuff.  Oh,  yes,  Sharper's  all  right. 

"You  ought  to  run  down  and  see  Halfpenny  Hole. 
What  is  it  the  agents  say?  Old-world.  It's  very 
old-world.  Only  three  houses  in  it,  and  all  different. 
Whether  the  garden  settlement  will  spoil  it  or  not  is 
another  matter.  You  go  and  paint  it  before  it  gets 
spoilt. 

"Strictly  between  ourselves,  I  am  not  quite  sure  that 
Sharper  and  his  wife  hit  it  off.  Oh,  nothing  much.  It's 
just  that  when  he  speaks  to  her  she  never  answers,  and 
when  she  speaks  to  him  he  never  answers.  In  fact, 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  3 

if  she  speaks  at  all  he  groans  and  moves  his  ears. 
Charming  woman,  very.  Quite  pretty.  There  may 
be  nothing  in  it.  I  saw  no  actual  violence.  Sharper 
may  merely  have  been  suffering.  He  wouldn't  be 
happy  if  he  wasn't.  Have  a  drink.  No?" 


CHAPTER  II 

HALFPENNY  HOLE  lay  in  the  bottom  of  a  slope  seven 
miles  from  Dilborough.  Dilborough  was  almost  the 
same  distance  from  Halfpenny  Hole.  Jawbones  was, 
I  think  we  must  say,  an  old-world  house,  and  had  the 
date  1623  carved  over  the  doorway.  Luke  Sharper 
had  carved  it  himself.  A  little  further  down  the  road 
there  was — there's  no  other  word  for  it — an  old-world 
bridge  with — I'm  afraid  we  must  have  it  once  more 
— an  old-world  stream  running  underneath  it.  It  gave 
one  the  impression  that  it  had  always  been  like  that. 
Always  the  stream  under  the  bridge.  Never  the  bridge 
under  the  stream.  But  now  that  the  Garden  Settlement 
had  come  things  might  be  very  different.  Houses  were 
going  up;  Mr.  Doom  Dagshaw's  Mammoth  Circus 
was  going  up ;  even  the  rates  were  going  up. 

At  the  end  of  his  honeymoon  Luke  Sharper  went 
to  see  a  man  about  a  dog,  and  left  his  wife  to  prepare 
Jawbones  for  his  accommodation.  She  was  a  good 
housekeeper,  and  Luke  acknowledged  it.  Whenever 
he  thought  about  her  at  all,  he  always  added  "but 
she  is  a  good  housekeeper."  He  was  desperately  fair. 

"This/'  said  Mabel,  opening  a  door,  as  Luke  began 
his  vi^it  of  inspection,  "this  is  your  den." 

5 


6  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

Luke's  ears  moved.  He  kissed  her  twice.  "But, 
you  know,  I  cannot  bear  it.  There  are  some  words 
which  I  am  unable  to  endure,  such  as  salt-cellar,  tuber- 
culosis, tennis-net  and  den." 

"Very  well,"  said  Mabel,  a  little  coldly,  "we'll  call 
it  your  cage.  And  just  look.  There  is  a  pair  of  my 
father's  old  slippers  that  I  have  brought  for  you.  Size 
thirteen.  You've  got  none  quite  like  that,  have  you?" 

He  put  one  arm  round  her  waist. 

"Where  did  you  say  the  dustbin  was?"  he  asked. 

"But,"  she  said  amazed,  "you  don't  mean  to  say 

Surely  you  wear  slippers?" 

"I  never  was,"  he  replied  firmly.    Nor  did  he. 

"And  now,"  said  Mabel,  "come  into  the  kitchen  and 
see  the  two  maids  that  I  have  engaged.  Two 
nice  respectable  sisters  named  Morse — Ellen  Morse 


"There  isn't  an  T  in  Morse,"  he  said  gloomily. 

"And  Kate  Morse,"  Mabel  continued. 

She  opened  the  door  into  the  spotless  kitchen,  and 
the  two  maids  sprang  instantly  to  attention.  One  of 
them  was  cleaning  silver,  the  other  was  still  lingering 
over  tea.  The  first  was  very  long,  and  the  second 
very  short. 

Luke  slapped  his  leg  enthusiastically.  "Oh,  by 
Jove,"  he  said,  "this  is  ripping.  Morse.  Don't  you 
see?  Dot  and  Dash.  Dot  and  Dash." 

He  howled  with  laughter.  Dash  dropped  the  tea-pot 
Dot  had  hysterics. 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  7 

"I  think,"  said  Mabel,  without  a  smile,  "we  had 
better  go  into  the  garden." 

Everything  in  the  garden  was  lovely. 

"Luke,"  said  Mabel,  "I  did  not  quite  like  what  you 
said  in  the  kitchen  just  now.  It  was  just  a  teeny- 
weeny " 

"Funny,  wasn't  it?"  said  Luke.  "You  must  admit 
it  was  funny.  Seemed  to  come  to  me  all  of  a  flash. 
I'll  bet  that  nothing  more  amusing  has  been  said  in 
this  house  since  the  day  it  was  built.  Dot  and  Dash! 
Dot  and  Dash!  Oh,  help!" 

He  rolled  about  the  path  in  uncontrollable  laughter. 

Mabel  looked  sadder  and  sadder.  He  said  that  made 
it  all  the  funnier,  and  laughed  more. 

After  dinner  he  wrote  the  joke  out  carefully.  It 
seemed  a  pity  that  Punch  should  not  have  it.  Mabel 
yawned,  and  said  she  would  go  up  to  bed. 

"Tired?"  asked  Luke. 

"A  little.  There's  something  about  you,  Luke,  that 
makes  one  feel  tired.  By  the  way,  did  you  ever 
know  Mr.  Mark  Sabre?" 

"God  forbid — I  mean,  no." 

"Well,  he  called  one  of  his  maids  High  Jinks  and 
the  other  Low,  but  it  turned  out  later  in  the  story 
that  the  one  that  was  first  Low  became  High,  while 
High  became  Low.  I  thought  I'd  just  mention  it  to 
you  as  a  warning." 

"Right-o.    I'll  be  very  careful.    I  may  as  well  come 


8  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

up  to  bed  myself.  The  editor  of  Punch  will  be  a  happy 
man  to-morrow  morning/* 

At  intervals  that  night  Mabel  was  awakened  by 
screams  of  laughter.  Once  she  enquired  what  the  cause 
was. 

"Dot  and  Dash/'  he  replied,  chuckling.  "Too  good 
for  words!  Oh,  can't  you  see  it?" 

"Good-night  again,"  said  Mabel. 

On  the  following  night,  when  he  returned  from 
business,  Mabel  met  him  in  the  hall. 

"Darling,"  she  said,  "we've  had  trouble  with  thfr 
sink  in  the  scullery." 

"What  did  you  do  about  it?" 

"I  sent  for  the  plumber.  He  seemed  such  a  nice, 
intelligent  man." 

"Have  you  kept  him  to  dine  with  us?" 

"No.  Why  on  earth  should  I?  He  had  a  glass  of 
beer  in  the  kitchen." 

"People  dine  with  me  sometimes,"  said  Luke,  "who 
are  neither  nice  nor  intelligent.  Oh,  can't  you  see, 
Mabel,  that  we  are  all  equal  in  the  sight  of  Heaven?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mabel,  "but  you're  not  in  sight  of 
Heaven — not  by  a  long  way.  I  don't  suppose  you 
ever  will  be.  Besides,  if  he  had  stayed,  the  dinner 
could  not  have  gone  on." 

Luke's  ears  twitched  convulsively.  "I  can't  see  that," 
he  said.  "It  is  unthinkable.  How  can  you  say  that?" 

"Well,"  said  Mabel,  "one  of  the  vegetables  we  are 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  9 

to  eat  to-night  happens  to  be  leeks.  And,  of  course, 
he,  being  a  plumber,  would  have  stopped  them." 

Luke  did  not  swear.  He  simply  went  up  to  his 
bedroom  in  silence.  There  he  began  ticking  certain 
subjects  off  on  his  finger.  Number  One,  Den.  Num- 
ber Two,  Slippers.  Number  Three,  Dot  and  Dash. 
Number  Four,  Plumber.  She  would  never  see.  She 
would  never  understand.  And  he  was  married  to  it. 
He  put  up  both  hands  and  pushed  his  ears  back  into 
position. 

(I  had  fully  intended  to  divide  this  chapter  into 
sections  and  to  number  them  in  plain  figures.  Careless 
of  me.  Thoughtless.  Have  a  shot  at  it  in  the  next 
chapter  ?  I  think  so.  Yes,  almost  .  .  . ) 


CHAPTER  III 


PENTLOVE,  POSTLETHWAITE  AND  SHARPER  occupied  a 
large  factory,  with  offices  and  showroom  attached,  in 
Dilborough.  They  had  no  address.  The  name  of  the 
firm  alone  was  quite  sufficient  to  find  them.  Some 
people  added  the  word  Dilborough;  some  simply  put 
Surrey;  some  merely  England.  They  were  known 
to  everybody.  Their  motto — "Perfect  Purity" — was 
in  every  daily  paper  every  day.  And  during  those 
weeks  when  the  pickle  manufacturing  was  going  on, 
every  little  hamlet  within  a  radius  of  twenty  miles 
was  aware  of  the  fact  if  the  wind  set  in  that  direction. 
There  was  no  Pentlove  in  the  firm,  and  no  Postle- 
thwaite,  and  hardly  any  Sharper.  An  ex-schoolmaster, 
Diggle  by  name,  had  secured  the  entire  control  of 
the  business.  He  had  no  partners,  though  Sharper 
had  a  small  interest  in  the  firm.  He  had  achieved 
this  position  by  unscrupulousness  and  low  cunning. 
For  of  real  ability  he  had  not  a  trace.  In  fact,  the 
staff  mostly  called  him  Cain,  because  he  was  not  able. 
Another  point  of  resemblance  was  that  he  was  not 

much  of  a  hand  at  a  sacrifice.     He  looked  after  the 

ii 


12  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

financial  side  of  the  business,  and  did  a  good  deal  of 
general  interference  in  every  branch  of  it. 

The  manufacturing  side  was  under  the  control  of 
Arthur  Dobson,  a  red- faced  man  who  had  been  with 
the  firm  for  twenty  years.  He  very  wisely  maintained 
its  tradition  of  the  very  highest  quality  coupled  with 
the  very  highest  prices.  "Perfect  Purity."  It  was  an 
admitted  fact  that  Pentlove,  Postlethwaite  and  Sharper 
actually  used  limes  in  the  manufacture  of  lime  juice. 
Another  startling  innovation  was  the  use  of  calves' 
feet  in  the  preparation  of  calf's- foot  jelly.  This  was 
the  more  extravagant  because,  of  course,  only  the  front 
feet  of  the  calf  may  be  used  for  this  purpose.  Three 
back  feet  make  one  back-yard.  Naturally  the  price  was 
ruinous.  But  it  all  added  to  the  reputation  of  the  firm. 
And  the  best  hotels  thought  it  worth  while  to  advertise 
that  the  pickles  and  preserves  they  provided  were  by 
Messrs.  Pentlove,  Postlethwaite  and  Sharper.  It  may  be 
as  well  to  add  that  Arthur  Dobson  was  a  knave. 
When  he  was  talking  to  Cain  he  always  slated  Sharper. 
When  he  was  talking  to  Sharper  he  always  slated  Cain. 
His  specialty  was  the  continuous  discovery  of  some 
cheaper  place  in  which  to  lunch.  He  would  ask  Luke 
Sharper  to  join  him  in  these  perilous  adventures,  but 
Luke,  in  his  sunny  way,  always  refused. 

"Standoffish,"  said  Dobson.     "Damn  standoffish." 

Luke  Sharper  represented  the  literary  side  of  the 

business.     He  wrote  all  the  advertisements.     It  was 

a  rule  of  the  firm  that  the  advertisements  should  be 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  13 

scholarly,  and  that  none  should  appear  which  did  not 
contain  at  least  one  quotation  from  a  classical  language. 
Luke  had  also  initiated  the  production  of  various 
booklets  dealing  with  the  materials  and  the  methods 
of  business.  Nominally  they  were  published;  practi- 
cally they  were  given  away  to  any  considerable  pur- 
chaser. Some  of  these  were  written  by  Sharper 
himself.  There  was,  for  example,  "The  Romance  of 
the  Raspberry,"  of  which  the  Dilborough  Gazette  had 
said :  "An  elegant  little  brochure."  This  was  a  great 
triumph.  Even  Diggle  had  to  admit  it.  He  had  gone 
so  far  as  to  say  that  one  of  these  fine  days  he  would 
really  have  to  think  about  making  Sharper  a  partner. 
Other  of  the  booklets  were  written  in  collaboration. 
For  instance,  in  the  composition  of  "Thoughts  on 
Purity,"  Sharper  had  the  assistance  of  the  Reverend 
Noel  Atall. 

Luke  kept  a  set  of  these  booklets,  bound  in  lilac 
morocco,  in  his  room  at  the  office.  He  loved  them. 
He  was  proud  of  them.  He  regarded  them  as  his 
children,  and  would  sit  for  hours  patting  them  gently. 
As  the  issue  of  each  booklet  was  limited  to  one  hun- 
dred copies,  and  it  was  customary  to  present  one  of 
them  with  each  order  of  £20  or  upwards,  some  of 
them  were  out  of  print,  and  difficult  to  obtain.  This 
had  been  enough  to  start  the  collectors.  In  book 
catalogues  there  would  sometimes  appear  a  complete 
set  of  the  Pentlove,  Postlethwaite  and  Sharper  booklets. 


i4  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

And  the  price  asked  was  gratifying.    Luke  fainted  with 
joy  the  first  time  he  saw  this  in  the  catalogue. 

At  one  time*  he  had  been  in  the  habit  of  taking  the 
booklet  home  in  order  to  read  it  aloud  to  Mabel.  He 
never  did  it  now.  It  was  hopeless.  No  insight.  No 
sympathy.  No  appreciation.  No  anything.  Blind 
and  deaf  to  beauty.  But  she  really  was  a  good  house- 
keeper. 


Luke  bicycled  from  home  to  business  every  morning, 
and  from  business  to  home  every  evening.  He  enjoyed 
this  immensely.  Every  morning  as  he  rode  off  he  said 
to  himself:  "Further  from  Mabel.  Further  and 
further  from  Mabel.  Every  day,  in  every  way,  I'm 
getting  further  and  further."  On  his  return  journey 
in  the  evening  he  experienced  the  same  relief  in  getting 
further  from  old  Cain,  and  further  from  the  office. 

At  the  middle  point  of  his  journey  it  always  seemed 
to  him  that  he  did  not  belong  to  the  office  any  more, 
and  that  he  did  not  belong  to  Mabel  either.  He  was 
all  his  own,  in  a  world  by  himself.  He  would  go  on  in 
a  snow-white  ecstasy.  Then  he  would  get  up,  dust  his 
clothes,  and  re-mount. 

He  had  some  habits,  which,  to  the  stupid  and  cen- 
sorious, might  almost  seem  childish.  He  cut  for  him- 
self with  his  little  hatchet  a  number  of  pegs,  and  always 
carried  some  of  them  in  his  pocket.  At  every  point 
on  the  road  where  he  fell  off,  he  drove  in  a  peg.  It 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  15 

seemed  to  him  a  splendid  idea.  In  a  wave  of  enthu- 
siasm he  told  Mabel  all  about  it. 

"Isn't  it  absolutely  splendid?"  he  asked. 

"Dotty,"  said  Mabel,  briefly. 

He  went  out  into  the  woodshed  and  cut  more  pegs. 

One  Monday  morning  as  he  started  on  his  ride  he 
saw  before  him  at  intervals  all  down  the  road  little 
white  specks.  Yes,  every  one  of  those  pegs  had  been 
painted  white  by  somebody. 

Who  could  have  done  it?  He  decided  at  once  that 
it  must  be  Mabel.  She  had  repented  of  her  harsh- 
ness. She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  try  to  enter  more 
into  his  secret  soul.  This  was  her  silent  way  of  showing 
it.  He  determined  that  if  this  were  so  he  would  start 
kissing  her  again  that  evening.  It  overcame  him  com- 
pletely. He  drove  in  one  more  peg,  and  re-mounted. 

"Mabel,"  he  said  that  night  at  dinner,  "It's  good 
and  sweet  of  you  to  have  painted  all  those  pegs  white. 
It  must  have  taken  you  a  long  time." 

"Never  touched  your  rotten  old  pegs,"  said  Mabel. 
"Pass  the  salt." 

His  ears  twitched. 

3 

Later  that  evening  he  sat  alone  in  his  bedroom.  He 
also  used  this  room  as  a  study.  He  had  been  driven 
to  this  somewhat  frowsty  practice  by  the  fact  that 
he  could  not  possibly  sit  in  any  room  that  had  ever 
been  called  a  den. 


16  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

A  tap  at  the  door.  Ellen  Morse  entered  to  turn  the 
bed  down.  A  bright  idea  flashed  across  Luke's  mind. 
His  ears  positively  jumped. 

He  believed  in  liberty,  equality  and  familiarity,  espe- 
cially familiarity.  So  did  Ellen  Morse. 

"Dot,"  he  said,  "was  it  you  who  painted  my  fall-pegs 
white?" 

"Well,  old  bean,"  said  Dot,  "it  was  like  this.  I'll 
tell  you."  She  seated  herself  on  the  bed.  "You  see, 
this  house  has  only  got  four  reception-rooms  and  eight 
bedrooms,  and  all  the  washing's  done  at  home,  and  all 
the  dressmaking,  and  there's  a  good  deal  of  entertain- 
ing, mostly  when  you're  not  there,  and  everything  has 
to  be  right  up  to  the  mark.  Well,  as  there  were  the 
whole  two  of  us  to  do  it,  your  old  woman  thought 
time  would  be  hanging  heavy  on  our  hands,  so  now 
we  do  the  garden  as  well.  The  other  day  Mr.  Doom 
Dagshaw  was  lunching  here,  and  they  were  going  to 
play  tennis  afterwards.  Your  bit  of  skirt  has  some 
proper  games  with  that  Dagshaw.  I  watch  them  out 
of  the  pantry  window  in  my  leisure  moments.  Well, 
anyhow,  I'd  to  mark  out  the  tennis  court,  and  I  mixed 
up  a  bit  more  of  the  stuff  than  was  needed,  and  I 
thought  I  might  as  well  use  it  up  on  your  pegs.  You 
see,  I  get  a  half -Sunday  off  every  three  months,  and 
it  was  only  a  fourteen-mile  walk  there  and  back.  And 
I'm  sure  I  didn't  know  what  else  to  do  with  my 
holiday." 

"Dot,"  said  Luke,  "you  seem  to  be  able  to  enter  into 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  17 

things.  You  get  the  hang  of  my  ideas.  Some  do, 
some  don't.  If  you  can  sneak  off  for  half-an-hour 
to-morrow  evening  we'll  go  and  play  at  boats  together." 

"Boats?" 

"Yes.  You  know  the  bridge.  We  get  two  pieces 
of  wood,  throw  them  in  the  stream  on  one  side,  then 
run  across  and  watch  them  come  out  on  the  other. 
And  the  one  that  comes  out  first,  wins.  Won't  that 
be  glorious?" 

"Well,  you  are  one  to  think  of  things,"  said  Dot. 

(And  now  we'll  have  a  little  novelty.  The  Great 
Novelists  of  to-day  number  their  sections.  We'll  have 
a  number  without  any  section.  This  has  never  been 
done  be 


CHAPTER  IV 

IT  can  be  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  Mabel  caught 
Luke  and  Dot  playing  boats  on  the  following  evening. 
Luke  was  always  discovered.  He  was  even  detected 
when  he  had  done  nothing. 

As  he  dressed  for  dinner  that  night,  he  reflected  that 
once  more  Mabel  had  disappointed  him.  He  had 
expected  her  to  get  into  a  fury  of  jealousy,  and  to  sus- 
pect him  of  the  most  criminal  intentions  with  regard 
to  Dot.  This  would  have  been  real  suffering  for  him, 
and  he  would  have  enjoyed  it.  But  all  she  had  said 
to  him  was  that  she  wished  he  would  behave  a  little 
more  like  a  man  and  a  little  less  like  a  baby,  and  an 
imbecile  baby  at  that.  All  she  had  said  to  Dot  was  that 
she  thought  she  could  find  her  some  other  occupation. 
It  was  difficult  for  him  to  keep  his  temper.  But  he 
exercised  self-control.  In  fact,  he  never  spoke  another 
word  for  the  rest  of  the  evening.  It  was  a  pity.  He 
was  such  a  pleasant  man.  Why  could  not  Mabel  see  it? 

Things  were  no  better  at  breakfast  next  morning. 

Mabel  said,  "Just  fancy,  Mrs.  Smith  in  a  sable  stole 
at  church  last  Sunday,  and  I  know  for  a  fact  that  he 
only  gets  three-ten.  If  it  was  real  sable  it  was  wicked, 
and  if  it  was  not  she  was  acting  a  lie." 

19 


20  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

Luke  smote  the  table  once  with  his  clenched  fist, 
spilt  his  tea,  and  resumed  his  newspaper. 

"Further  from  Mabel,"  he  thought,  as  he  mounted 
his  bike.  "Every  day,  in  every  way,  I'm  getting  further 
and  further." 

About  two  miles  from  Dilborough  he  became  sud- 
denly aware  that  two  motor-cars  were  approaching 
him.  They  were  being  driven  abreast  at  racing  speed, 
and  occupied  the  whole  of  the  road.  For  one  moment 
Luke  thought  of  remaining  where  he  was,  and  causing 
Mabel  to  be  a  widow.  Then,  murmuring  to  himself, 
"Safety  first,"  he  ran  up  the  grassy  slope  at  the  side 
of  the  road  and  fell  off.  Both  the  cars  pulled  up.  A 
man's  voice  sang  out  cheerily :  "Hallo,  Sharper.  Hallo, 
hallo.  Who  gave  you  leave  to  dismount?" 

Luke  recognized  the  voice.  One  of  the  cars  was 
driven  by  Lord  Tyburn,  and  the  other  by  his  wife, 
Jona. 

Luke  hurriedly  drove  in  a  peg  to  mark  the  spot,  and 
came  down  into  the  road  again. 

"How's  yourself?"  said  Lord  Tyburn.  "We've  been 
away  for  two  years.  Timbuctoo,  Margate.  All  over 
the  place.  Only  got  back  to  Gallows  last  night." 

Luke  shook  hands  with  him  and  with  Jona. 

"You've  not  changed  much,"  said  Jona.  "Same 
funny  old  face." 

"It  is  the  only  one  that  I  happen  to  have,  Lady 
Tyburn." 

"Oh,  drop  it.     Call  me  Jona.    You  always  used  to, 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  21 

Lukie,  you  know.    And  Bill  don't  mind ;  do  you,  Bill  ?" 

"That?  Lord,  no.  But  what  you  have  been  and 
done,  Sharper,  is  to  spoil  a  very  pretty  and  sporting 
event.  Jona  and  I  were  racing  to  Halfpenny  Hole, 
and  I'd  got  her  absolutely  beaten." 

"Liar,"  said  Jona,  "I  was  leading — leading  by 
inches." 

"Ah,  but  I'd  lots  in  reserve." 

"Strong,  silent  man,  ain't  you?"  said  Jona. 

They  both  laughed. 

"Yes,"  said  Luke,  "I'm  afraid  I  was  rather  in  the 
way.  I  seem  to  be  almost  always  in  the  way.  It  hap- 
pens at  home.  It  happens  at  the  office.  I  say,  I  wonder 
what  you  two  would  have  done  if  you'd  met  a  cart?" 

"Jumped  it,"  said  Jona,  and  laughed  again. 

"Sorry,"  said  Lord  Tyburn,  "but  I  must  rush  off. 
I've  just  spotted  my  agent,  five  fields  away.  So  long, 
Sharper.  Come  up  and  inspect  us  soon." 

He  drove  the  car  up  the  grassy  slope,  smashed  a 
way  through  the  hedge — after  all,  it  was  his  own  hedge 
— and  vanished. 

"He  drives  wonderfully,"  said  Luke. 

"He's  that  kind,"  said  Jona.  "He  does  everything 
well.  He  does  himself  well.  Are  you  glad  to  see  me 
again,  Lukie?" 

The  tips  of  his  ears  crept  slowly  forward.  "I  shall 
have  to  think  for  a  long  time  to  know  that  I  really 
am  to  see  you  again." 


22  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

"  'Fraid  I  can't  wait  a  long  time,"  said  Jona.  "See 
you  again  soon." 

She  waved  her  hand  to  him  and  drove  off. 

Luke  rode  on  as  if  in  a  dream.  Suddenly  he  became 
aware  that  he  had  passed  the  door  of  his  office.  He 
thought  of  turning  round  in  the  street  and  riding  back, 
but  he  had  turned  round  in  the  street  once  before,  and 
a  great  number  of  people  haH  been  hurt.  He  dis- 
mounted and  walked  back. 

As  his  custom  was,  he  knocked  at  the  door  of  Mr. 
Diggle's  room  and  entered.  Mr.  Diggle,  who  still 
retained  much  of  his  school-master  manner,  sat  at  his 
desk  with  his  back  to  Sharper.  He  did  not  look  round. 

"That  you,  Sharper?"  he  said. 

"Yes,  sir.     Good  morning,"  said  Sharper. 

Diggle  went  on  writing  for  a  minute  in  silence,  and 
then  said  drearily:  "Well,  what  is  it?" 

"Please  can  I  have  that  partnership  now?"  asked 
Sharper. 

"Not  to-day.  Don't  fidget  with  your  hands.  Keep 
your  ears  quiet,  if  possible.  Close  the  door  gently  as 
you  go  out." 

Luke  went  gloomily  back  to  his  own  room.  He  had 
not  done  himself  justice.  He  never  did  do  himself 
justice  with  Diggle.  Diggle  made  him  feel  as  if  he 
were  fifteen. 

But  thoughts  of  Diggle  did  not  long  occupy  his  mind. 
Once  more  he  seemed  to  be  standing  in  the  road,  with 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  23 

the  warm  fragrance  of  petrol  and  lubricating  oil  play- 
ing on  his  face.  Once  more  he  saw  her. 

Jona. 

Some  would  have  hesitated  to  call  her  beautiful. 
To  Luke  she  was  all  the  beauty  in  the  world.  Concen- 
trated. At  one  time  Jona  had  had  the  chance  of  marry- 
ing him,  but  apparently  she  did  not  know  a  good  thing 
when  she  saw  it.  Tyburn  had  the  title  and  the  property, 
and  was  better-looking  and  more  amusing,  and  had 
stationary  ears.  But  had  he  the  character  of  a  child 
martyr  ?  He  had  not.  Now  Luke  was  great  at  martyr- 
dom ;  also  at  childishness. 

For  nearly  an  hour  Luke  sat  with  his  manuscript 
before  him.  He  was  writing  another  elegant  little 
brochure.  This  one  dealt  with  the  jam-pots  of  Ancient 
Assyria.  During  that  hour  he  did  not  write  one  single 
word,  but  thought  continuously  of  Jona. 

He  pulled  himself  up  abruptly.  Why,  he  was 
married  to  Mabel.  Of  course,  he  was.  It  was  just  as 
if  he  could  not  trust  his  memory  for  anything  these 
days.  He  had  been  rather  rude  to  Mabel  at  break- 
fast. Well,  not  rude  exactly,  but  not  friendly.  Mrs. 
Smith  had  a  sable  stole.  He  ought  to  have  said  some- 
thing about  it.  He  must  try  at  once  to  think  of 
something  that  would  be  said  about  a  sable  stole. 

He  must  make  it  up  to  Mabel  in  some  way.  What 
could  he  give  her?  He  could  give  her  more  of  his 
society.  He  would  stop  work,  go  back  to  her  at  once, 
and  be  just  as  nice  as  nice  could  be. 


24  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

He  put  on  his  hat,  and  met  Diggle  in  the  passage. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  said  Diggle. 

"I  was  going  home,  sir,"  said  Luke,  "I'm  not  very 
well  this  morning." 

(For  a  Christian  martyr  he  certainly  did  lie  like  sin.) 

"Don't  let  it  occur  again,"  said  Diggle. 

He  encountered  Mabel  in  the  hall  of  his  house.  She 
had  a  letter  in  her  hand.  She  seemed  surprised  to  see 
him,  and  very  far  from  pleased. 

"What  in  goodness  are  you  here  for?"  she  said. 
"Forgotten  something?" 

He  set  his  teeth.  In  spite  of  discouragement,  he  was 
going  to  be  very  nice  indeed. 

"I  am  afraid,"  he  said,  "I  rather  forgot  my  manners 
at  breakfast  this  morning.  Sorry." 

"I  didn't  notice  they  were  any  worse  than  usual. 
You  surely  didn't  come  back  to  say  that?" 

"Oh,  no.  I  thought  we'd  take  a  holiday  together. 
Like  old  times,  what?  We'll  go  for  a  nice  long  walk, 
and  take  a  packet  of  sandwiches  and " 

"Oh,  don't  be  silly.  I  can't  possibly  go  out.  Prob- 
ably Mr.  Doom  Dagshaw  is  coming  to  lunch." 

"He's  a  damned  sweep,"  said  Luke  impulsively,  and 
corrected  himself.  "I  mean  to  say,  he's  not  a  man 
whose  society  I'm  particularly  anxious  to  cultivate." 

"How  was  I  to  know  you  would  come  barging  in 
like  this?  I  never  wanted  you  to  meet  him." 

More  self-control  needed. 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  25 

"I  shall  be  perfectly  pleasant  and  chatty  to  him/' 
said  Luke  resolutely. 

"This  letter's  just  come  for  you,"  said  Mabel.  "The 
address  is  in  Lady  Tyburn's  handwriting." 

He  blushed  profusely.  His  ears  waved  to  and  fro. 
Why  on  earth  had  not  Jona  warned  him  that  this  was 
going  to  happen?" 

"Read  it,"  said  Mabel. 

He  glanced  through  it.    It  was  very  brief. 

"Well?"  asked  Mabel. 

"It's  nothing.     Nothing  at  all." 

"I  should  like  to  see  it,  if  you  don't  mind." 

She  took  the  letter  and  read  aloud:  "Lukie,  dear. 
Just  back  from  two  years'  travel.  You  two  might  blow 
in  to  lunch  one  day.  Any  old  day.  Chops  and  tomato 
sauce.  Yours,  Jona." 

"Most  extraordinary,"  said  Mabel.  "Why  does  she 
call  you  Lukie?" 

"Well,  damn  it  all,"  said  Luke,  "she  couldn't  call 
me  lucky.  Oh,  what  does  it  matter?  We  were 
boy  and  girl  together.  Innocent  friends  of  long 
standing." 

"And  what  does  this  mean?  Chops  and  tomato 
sauce?  Chops!  Gracious  Heavens!  And  tomato 


sauce." 


"It's  just  a  joke.     Silly,  no  doubt." 
"It  might  be  an  allusion  to  your  complexion  at  the 
present  moment.     It  might  be  a  mere  substitute  for 


26  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

some  endearing  word  or  promise,  agreeably  to  a  pre- 
concerted system  of  correspondence." 

He  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  he  had  heard  or 
read  all  this  before  somewhere. 

"Merely  a  joke,"  he  pleaded.  "And  what  does  it 
matter?" 

"She's  a  cat,  anyhow.  She'd  better  keep  off  the 
grass,  and  I'll  tell  her  so.  What  did  she  say  when 
she  saw  you  this  morning?" 

"Hardly  anything.  Her  husband  was  with  her.  I 
say,  how  on  earth  did  you  know?" 

"Her  husband  was  not  with  her  when  I  met  her. 
But  do  you  know  what  this  sudden  return  of  yours 
means?  This  unusual  desire  to  apologize  for  your 
manners,  and  to  take  me  out  for  the  day  ?  Guilty  con- 
science. I'm  going  into  the  garden  to  cut  flowers  for 
the  luncheon  table." 

"Let  me  come  with  you  and  hold  the  scissors?" 

"If  you  hold  the  scissors,  how  the  dickens  am  I  going 
to  cut  the  flowers?  You're  really  too  trying." 

No,  it  was  not  going  well.  More  self-control  would 
be  needed.  A  happy  idea  struck  him. 

"Didn't  you  say  that  Mrs.  Smith  had  a  stable  sole 
— I  mean,  a  sable  stole,  in  church  or  somewhere?" 

"And  you  don't  try  that  on  either." 

"I  don't  suppose  I  should  look  well  in  it,"  he  said 
brightly. 

He  followed  her  into  the  garden.  The  flowers  were 
cut,  and  subsequently  arranged,  in  complete  silence.  He 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  27 

had  the  feeling  that  anything  he  said  might  not  be  taken 
down,  but  would  certainly  be  used  in  evidence  against 
him. 

And  then,  in  the  hall,  was  heard  the  voice  of  Mr. 
Doom  Dagshaw,  the  proprietor  of  the  Mammoth  Circus 
at  the  Garden  Settlement. 

"Lunch  ready?  So  it  ought  to  be.  Don't  announce 
me.  Waste  of  time.  I  know  my  way  about  in  this 
house." 

He  entered.  He  was  a  young  man  of  sulky,  some- 
what dictatorial  expression.  His  dress  had  something 
of  the  clerical  appearance,  an  effect  at  which  he  dis- 
tinctly aimed. 

"Hallo,"  he  said,  and  sat  down  on  the  table  and 
yawned.  Then  he  caught  sight  of  Luke. 

"You  here?"  he  said.     "What  for?" 

"Just  a  little  holiday,"  said  Luke  nervously,  "a  little 
treat  for  me.  You  don't  mind?" 

Doom  Dagshaw  did  not  answer  him,  but  turned  to 
Mabel. 

"Lunch  is  ready,"  he  said,  "let's  get  on  to  it." 

They  passed  into  the  dining-room.  Luke  observing 
salmon  at  one  end  of  the  table,  and  cutlets  at  the  other, 
asked,  with  a  smile,  if  those  two  sentences  generally  ran 
concurrently. 

"Oh,  hold  your  jaw,"  said  Dagshaw. 

"That's  the  way  to  talk  to  him,"  said  Mabel  approv- 
ingly. 

"Yours,  too,"  Dagshaw  added,  turning  to  Mabel. 


28  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

"I'll  do  any  talking  that  has  to  be  done.  I'm  here  to 
talk  about  my  circus.  Yes,  and  to  eat  ham.  Isn't  any? 
Ought  to  be.  Give  me  three  of  those  cutlets.  You 
don't  realize  what  a  circus  is,  you  people.  It's  a  church. 
It's  a  cathedral.  It's  more." 

"I  hope,"  said  Luke,  "that  it's  getting  on  nicely,  and 
will  be  a  great  success." 

"Bound  to  be.  Can't  help  it.  When  I  bought  the 
land  from  the  Garden  Settlement  Syndicate  I  made  it  a 
condition  that  there  should  be  a  clause  in  every  lease 
granted  that  a  year's  season  ticket  should  be  taken  for 
the  Mammoth  Circus." 

"I  don't  quite  see,"  said  Mabel,  "how  it's  like  a 
church." 

"The  circus  has  a  ring.  The  ring  is  a  circle.  The 
circle  is  the  symbol  of  eternity.  Will  anybody  be  able 
to  see  my  highly-trained  chimpanzee  in  the  trapeze  act 
without  realizing  as  he  has  never  realized  before,  the 
meaning  of  the  word  uplift?  Think  of  the  stars  in  their 
program.  And  by  what  strenuous  discipline  and  self- 
denial  they  have  reached  their  high  position." 

"  Ter  ardua  ad  astra/  "  quoted  Luke. 

"Hold  your  jaw.  Three  more  cutlets.  Think  of  the 
clowns.  They  tumble  over,  they  fall  from  horses,  they 
fail  to  jump  through  the  rings.  They  are  lashed  by 
the  whip  of  the  ring-master.  What  a  lesson  in  rever- 
ence is  here.  People  who  jeer,  people  who  make  fun, 
people  who  parody  great  works  of  fiction  always  and 
invariably  come  to  a  bad  end.  It  will  be  not  only  a 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  29 

mammoth  circus  but  a  moral  circus.  It  will  be  the 
greatest  ethical  institution  in  this  part  of  the  world.  Its 
work  will  be  more  subtle  than  that  of  any  other.  Its 
appeal  will  be  to  the  unconscious  rather  than  to  the 
conscious  mind.  Freud  never  thought  of  that.  I  did 
it  myself.  I  am  a  genius.  Potatoes." 

After  lunch  it  was  suggested  that  Mr.  Doom  Dag- 
shaw  should  take  Mabel  up  to  the  Garden  Settlement 
to  set  the  progress  that  was  being  made  in  the  building 
of  the  Mammoth  Circus. 

"You  won't  care  to  come?"  said  Mabel  to  her  hus- 
band. And  it  seemed  less  like  a  question  than  a  com- 
mand. 

"No,  not  in  my  line,"  said  Luke,  still  doing  his  best. 
"Hope  you'll  enjoy  yourselves." 

When  they  had  gone,  Luke  retired  to  his  study- 
bedroom.  There  was  a  tap  at  the  door.  It  was  Dot 
who  entered. 

"She's  out,"  said  Dot.    "Boats?" 

"Right-o.     Gorgeous,"  said  Luke. 

******* 

Normally  dinner  was  at  half -past  seven.  But  Mabel 
did  not  get  back  till  a  quarter  to  eight.  It  was  eight 
o'clock  before  they  began.  Mabel  offered  no  explana- 
tion beyond  saying  that  there  really  had  been  a  great 
deal  of  architectural  detail  to  examine.  Luke  had  pre- 
pared a  series  of  six  pleasant  and  gratifying  things  to 
say  about  Mr.  Doom  Dagshaw  and  the  Mammoth 
Circus.  He  found  himself  absolutely  unable  to  say  any 


30  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

of  them.  He  could  say  other  things.  He  could  say 
"Windmill,  watermill"  ten  times  over,  very  quickly, 
without  a  mistake.  But  somehow  he  could  not  say 
Mammoth  Circus. 

Well,  at  any  rate,  he  might  be  bright  and  amusing. 
At  this  time  it  was  customary — perhaps  too  customary 
— to  ask  if  you  had  read  a  certain  book  by  a  certain 
author,  the  name  of  the  author  being  artfully  arranged 
so  as  to  throw  some  light  on  the  title  of  the  book. 
Luke  remembered  three  of  these  which  had  been  told 
him  at  the  office.  Unfortunately  they  were  all  of  them 
far  too  improper  for  general  use. 

So  he  just  said  any  bright  thing  that  came  into  his 
mind.  Mabel  looked  very  tired.  She  admitted  she 
was  tired.  She  said  she  had  walked  about  a  thousand 
miles. 

"And  then  I  come  back  to  this  kind  of  thing/'  she 
said. 

The  rest  of  the  dinner,  which  was  brief,  passed  in 
complete  silence.  Then  Mabel  went  into  the  drawing- 
room,  and  Luke  remained  behind  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"This  will  never  do,"  he  said  to  himself.  "I  must 
keep  it  up.  I  must  be  pleasant.  I  must  say  number  one 
of  those  six  sentences  about  Doom  Dagshaw  and  the 
Mammoth  Circus,  even  it  if  splits  my  palate  and  my 
tongue  drops  out." 

He  threw  down  his  cigarette,  walked  firmly  into  the 
drawing-room,  and  closed  the  door.  "Mabel,"  he  said, 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  31 

"I  hope  you  enjoyed  your  visit  to  the  Doom  Circus  with 
Mr.  Mammoth  Dagshaw." 

Mabel  looked  up  coldly  from  the  book  she  was 
reading. 

"Back  again  already?"  she  said.  "Well,  what  was  it 
you  were  saying?" 

"I  was  saying,"  said  Luke  gaily,  "that  I  hoped  you 
enjoyed  your  visit  to  the  Dammoth  Circus  with  Mr. 
Dag  Moomshaw." 

"Port  never  did  agree  with  you,"  said  Mabel.  "You 
shouldn't  take  it."  She  resumed  her  book. 

Luke  tried  the  second  of  the  pleasant  sentences. 

"Dagshaw  always  seems  to  me  to  be  one  of  those 
masterful  men  who  sooner  or  later " 

He  ducked  his  head  just  in  time,  and  the  book  which 
Mabel  had  thrown  knocked  over  the  vase  of  flowers 
behind  him. 

"If  you  can't  let  me  read  in  peace,"  she  said,  "at  any 
rate,  you  shan't  sneer  at  my  friends.  You're  always 
doing  it,  and  everybody  notices  it.  I  simply  can't  under- 
stand you.  You're  like  nothing  on  earth.  What  have 
you  done  with  that  love-letter  of  yours?" 

"Oh,  come,"  he  said,  "I've  had  no  love  letter." 

"You  silly  liar;  I  mean  the  letter  from  your  Lady 
Tyburn.  Have  you  been  kissing  it?" 

"Really,  Mabel,  this  is  absurd.  I  might  as  well  ask 
you  if  you  have  been  kissing  the  Mammoth  Circus." 

"I'm  going  to  bed,"   said  Mabel  abruptly.     "I'm 


32  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

absolutely  fed  up  with  you.  I'm  sick  to  death  of  you. 
I  hate  you.  And  I  despise  you." 

She  went  out  and  slammed  the  door  violently.  Four 
more  vases  went  over,  and  three  pictures  fell. 

Luke  went  over  to  the  open  window  and  looked 
out  into  the  cool  night.  At  the  house  opposite  a  girl 
was  singing  very  beautifully  "The  End  of  a  Perfect 
Day," 


CHAPTER  V 

As  he  sat  in  his  office  on  the  following  Thursday 
morning,  the  whistle  of  the  speaking-tube  sounded 
shrilly  and  interrupted  him  in  the  act  of  composition. 
He  went  angrily  to  the  tube. 

"What  do  you  want  to  interrupt  me  for/'  he  called, 
"when  you  know  I'm  busy?  What  the  devil  do  you 
want,  anyway?" 

"I  want  you,  Lukie,"  said  a  gentle  voice  in  reply. 

"Come  up  at  once,"  he  said.  "Awfully  sorry. 
Frightfully  glad  you've  come.  If  there's  a  chance  of 
making  a  mistake  within  a  hundred  miles  of  me,  I 
seldom  miss  it." 

Lady  Tyburn  came  radiantly  into  the  room,  drawing 
off  her  gloves. 

"Nasty  shock  for  you,  isn't  it?"  she  said.  She  held 
out  both  hands  to  him.  "Will  you  .  .  .  will  you 
help  yourself?" 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  as  he  clasped  them  warmly.  "I 
will  have  some  of  each." 

After  a  minute  or  two  she  withdrew  her  hands  and 
sat  down. 

"Has  that  dirty  dog  given  you  a  partnership  yet?" 
she  asked. 

33 


34  IF  WINTER  DONT 

"Diggle?  Not  yet.  I  ask  him  from  time  to  time. 
He  always  seems  too  busy  to  talk  about  it  at  any  length. 
It's  wonderful  to  see  you  here,  Jona." 

"You  got  my  letter?" 

"I  did.  In  fact,  there  was  some  considerable  beano 
about  it  at  home.  But  never  mind  about  that." 

"You  didn't  come  to  see  me,  so  I  was  drawn  here. 
Magnet  and  tin-tack." 

He  looked  at  her  little  white  nose.  "I  see  the  point," 
he  said. 

"Say  some  more,"  she  said,  "I  like  to  hear  you  talk, 
Funny  face.  Funny  old  ears.  Funny  old  cocoanut 
with,  oh,  such  a  lot  of  milk  in  it.  You  do  think 
a  lot  of  thinky  thoughts,  don't  you.  And  you  put  them 
all  down  in  those  dear  little  books  of  yours." 

"Not  all,"  said  Luke,  "I'm  limited  in  my  subjects. 
Jam,  you  know.  Pickles.  Sardines.  That  hurts — to 
be  limited.  I  want  to  be  free.  Here,  I  am  imprisoned. 
I  am  buried  alive.  Plunged,  still  teething,  in  the 
brougham." 

"Still  teething?  I  knew  you  were  young  at  heart. 
Still,  at  the  age  of  thirty-two " 

"I  had  intended  to  say  that  I  was  plunged,  still 
breathing,  in  the  tomb.  I  do  get  carried  away  so. 
Sometimes  I  form  plans.  I  think  I  will  leave  this  busi- 
ness and  write  my  biography.  It  would  be  a  record, 
not  of  the  facts  that  are,  but  of  the  facts  as  I  should 
like  them  to  be." 

"Brilliant,"  said  Jona. 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  35 

"I  don't  know/*  said  Luke,  wagging  his  ears,  "I 
sometimes  doubt  whether  I  am  sufficiently  in  touch  with 
real  life.  I  must  consult  somebody  about  it." 

"Consult  me.  No,  not  now.  Show  me  the  first  of 
the  little  books  that  you  ever  wrote." 

He  handed  her  the  little  lilac-bound  copy  of  "The 
Romance  of  a  Raspberry."  She  put  it  reverently  to  her 
lips,  patted  it  gently,  and  laid  it  down  again. 

"Do  you  talk  it  over  with  Mabel?  Isn't  Mabel  tre- 
mendously proud  of  it?" 

"She  is  tremendously  proud,  but  she  has  great  self- 
restraint."  He  recalled  the  end  of  the  perfect  day. 
"As  a  general  rule,"  he  added,  "when  nothing  hap- 
pens to  irritate  her." 

"Does  she  love  you  very  much?" 

"I  don't  remember  her  mentioning  anything  of  the 
kind  recently.  But  it's  you  I  want  to  talk  about,  Jona. 
Tell  me  about  your  life." 

"I  don't  live.  I'm  marking  time.  You  throw  a  brick 
into  the  stream " 

"No,"  said  Luke,  "not  a  brick.  I  sometimes  play 
boats." 

"I  was  going  to  say,"  Jona  continued,  "that  the  brick 
remains  motionless  while  the  stream  goes  past  it." 

"But  cannot  we  apply  the  principle  of  relativity 
here?"  he  asked.  "May  it  not  be  that  the  stream  stands 
still  while  the  brick  goes  past  it?  It  would  appear  so 
to  the  brick." 

"That's  one  of  your  dinky,  thinky  thoughts,  isn't  it?" 


36  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

A  sound  of  uproar,  of  crashes  and  loud  voices,  came 
up  from  the  street  below. 

"I  wonder  what  that  is?"  said  Luke. 

"It's  Bill,  probably.  He  said  he'd  call  for  me."  She 
crossed  over  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  "Yes, 
that's  Bill.  Driving  the  team  of  zebras  he  got  from 
Doom  Dagshaw.  The  horses  don't  seem  to  like  it. 
There's  a  cart  and  horse  just  gone  in  at  that  draper's 
window.  Quite  a  number  of  horses  seem  to  have  fallen 
down  on  the  pavement.  There's  a  policeman  with  a 
note-book.  He  seems  to  be  asking  Bill  questions.  And 
Bill's  making  him  laugh.  He  manages  those  zebras 
perfectly.  He  does  everything  well." 

Luke  had  joined  her  at  the  window.  "Who's  the 
lady  sitting  beside  him  ?"  he  asked. 

"One  of  his  harem.  Staying  with  us.  Don't  pity 
me.  I  deserve  nothing.  I  made  a  mistake  once.  Don't 
ask  me  what.  Don't  come  down  with  me.  Good-bye, 
Lukie,  dear." 

Luke  watched  her  as  she  drove  off.  And  then  Mr. 
Diggle  entered  without  knocking. 

"Who's  your  lady  friend?"  said  Diggle,  snappishly. 
"I  mean  the  one  that's  just  gone  off  in  the  circus. 
Simply  unendurable.  The  whole  street  outside  my 
business  premises  in  confusion.  I  opened  my  window 
to  look  out,  and  that  man  pointed  me  out  with  his 
whip  and  said  to  the  girl  beside  him :  That's  our  Mr. 
Diggle.  If  you  like  our  chutney,  try  our  cheddar.'  I 
shall  go  down  and  speak  to  the  policeman  at  once.  This 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  37 

sort  of  thing  must  be  stopped.  Come,  come,  Sharper, 
give  me  the  name,  please." 

"The  lady  who  called  to  see  me/*  said  Luke,  "was 
Lady  Tyburn.  It  was  her  husband  who  was  driving 
the  zebras." 

"That  makes  a  difference.  Our  spirited  young  aris- 
tocracy! I  understand  that  the  firm's  productions  are 
used  exclusively  up  at  Gallows.  Glad  you  mentioned 
the  name,  Sharper." 

"And  can  I  have  that  partnership  now?"  asked  Luke. 

"Not  immediately.     Get  on  with  your  work." 
******* 

But  it  was  impossible  to  work  with  the  image  of  Jona 
still  in  his  mind.  He  was  puzzled.  Grasping  one  ear 
in  each  hand  he  tried  to  think  it  out.  What  had  she 
meant  by  "help  yourself,"  and  "the  magnet  and  the  tin- 
tack?"  Why  had  she  kissed  "The  Romance  of  the 
Raspberry?"  What  did  she  mean  by  "I  made  a  mis- 
take?" It  almost  looked  as  if  .  .  . 

No,  it  could  not  be  that. 

Still,  really  you  know,  when  you  came  to  think 
about  it  ... 

He  walked  over  to  the  window  once  more.  In  the 
street  below  the  policeman  was  instructing  a  group  of 
drivers,  the  draper,  and  other  persons  concerned,  that 
all  applications  for  compensation  should  be  sent  in  to 
Lord  Tyburn,  and  that  they  would  be  dealt  with  strictly 
in  rotation. 


CTTAPTKR  VI 


ON  his  arrival  at  the  office  next  morning  Luke  was 
somewhat  surprised  to  receive  a  visit  in  his  office  from 
Mr.  Arthur  Dobson.  Apparently  Mr.  Dobson  had 
something  on  his  mind.  He  wandered  about  nervously 
saying  incoherent  things  about  the  weather. 

"Anything  doing?"  asked  Luke. 

"Nothing  much.  I  say,  I've  found  a  new  place  to 
lunch  at.  It's  run  by  an  Italian,  Malodorato.  Quite 
a  little  place,  in  Mud  Lane.  Still  there  it  is,  you  know. 
Five  courses  for  one  and  threepence.  That  takes  some 
beating." 

"Stuff  must  be  pretty  bad." 

"Well,  possibly  yes.  Hut  think  what  a  lot  of  it  you 
get  for  your  money.  Come  and  lunch  there  to-day." 

"Thanks.  I  have  promised  to  go  up  to  Gallows 
to-day  to  lunch  with  the  Tyburns." 

"You  and  your  ari  ,I<K  ratic  friends.  Well,  I  could 
tell  you  something,  Mr.  Sharper.  I  ought  not  to.  It 
would  have  to  be  distinctly  understood  that  you  don't 
breathe  a  word  about  it  to  a  soul." 

"Of  course,  of  course." 

39 


4o  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

"Very  well,  then.  You  look  at  that  sheet  of  office 
paper.  Old  Cain  has  got  his  name  above  the  line,  and 
yours  and  mine  beneath  it.  Well,  I  may  tell  you  that 
in  a  few  days'  time  the  only  name  below  the  line  will 
be  your  own.  I'm  being  taken  into  partnership." 

"What  a  damned  shame!  I  mean  to  say,  I  con- 
gratulate you.  That  old  blighter  has  been  talking  about 
taking  me  into  partnership  for  the  last  two  years.  At 
any  rate,  I  have." 

"I  only  talked  to  him  about  it  once.  You  see,  I 
happen  to  be  the  only  one  of  us  three  that  understands 
the  manufacturing  side.  You've  never  been  inside  the 
factory  in  your  life.  Diggle  hardly  ever  goes,  except 
to  make  a  fool  of  himself  by  some  damn  silly  sugges- 
tion. No,  he  keeps  to  the  financial  side.  He's  got  a 
whole  pack  of  doubtful  financial  dodges,  and  he'll  get 
seven  years  for  one  of  them  some  day.  All  I  did  was 
to  tell  Diggle  that  I  was  applying  for  the  post  of  man- 
ager in  a  certain  rival  firm,  having  had  twenty  years' 
experience  here.  And  I  asked  him  if  he  would  give 
me  a  testimonial.  He  said :  'No,  but  I  will  give  you 
a  partnership.'  You  don't  seem  to  get  hold  of  the  right 
way  of  doing  things,  Sharper." 

"All  the  same,"  said  Sharper,  "I'm  going  straight 
off  to  Diggle's  room  now,  and  I'm  going  to  give  him 
hell." 

"Oh,  I  say,  you  can't  do  that.  If  he  knew  I'd  told 
you,  there'd  be  the  very  devil  of  a  row." 

"Oh,  he  won't  know.    I  may  be  a  high-minded  suf- 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  41 

ferer,  but  I'm  a  very  fair  liar  as  well.    I'll  put  it  right 
for  you." 

He  entered  Mr.  Diggle's  room.  Mr.  Diggle,  seated, 
with  his  back  to  him,  continued  the  letter  he  was' 
writing. 

"Look  here,"  said  Sharper  impulsively,  "what  have 
you  been  and  done  with  that  partnership  of  mine?" 

"That  you,  Sharper  ?  Sit  down.  I  shall  be  a  minute 
or  two.  I  said,  sit  down.  I  did  not  ask  you  to  twist 
your  feet  round  the  legs  of  the  chair.  Refrain  also 
from  waggling  your  toes  violently.  It  interrupts  my 
train  of  thought.  Keep  the  hand  still,  if  you  please. 
Thank  you." 

There  were  three  minutes  of  absolute  silence  during 
which  Diggle,  in  the  most  leisurely  way  possible,  fin- 
ished and  blotted  his  letter. 

"And  now,  Sharper,"  said  Diggle,  "I  think  you 
wished  to  say  something." 

"Well,  I  mean  to  say,  what  have  you  been  and  done 
with  my  partnership?" 

"I  was  not  aware  that  you  had  one." 

"No,  but  you  promised  me.  And  now  you've  gone 
and  given  it  to  Dobson." 

"I  promised  you  nothing.  And  that,  I  think,  is 
what  you  have  got.  Dobson  is  very  gravely  in  error 
in  telling  you  anything  at  all  about  it.  If  you  will 
kindly  send  him  here,  I  will  speak  to  him  on  the  sub- 
ject." 

"Dobson  never  said  a  single  word  about  it.     I'll 


42  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

take  my  Bible  oath  he  never  did.  He  came  into  my 
room  and  began  to  speak  in  rather  a  dictatorial  way, 
and  I  said,  'You  might  be  a  partner/  and  he  blushed." 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  said  Diggle.  "Dobson  does  not 
blush.  If  he  did  blush  it  could  not  show  on  that 
complexion." 

"But  on  my  word  of  honor  he  did.  White- faced 
men  blush  red.  Red- faced  men  blush  purple.  Any 
man  of  science  will  tell  you  that." 

"The  appointment  of  a  partnership  is  entirely  within 
my  discretion.  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  you.  If  you 
have  nothing  further  to  say,  I  need  not  detain  you." 

"I've  a  lot  more  to  say,  only  I  can't  think  of  it.  I 
never  can.  But  it's  there.  Inside  my  head.  On  the 
letter  paper  you  and  he  will  have  your  names  above  the 
line,  and  mine  will  be  below  it." 

"That  merely  shows  that  I  know  where  to  draw  the 
line.  I  wish  you  did." 

"It's  not  for  myself  I  mind  so  much.  It's  those  dear 
little  books  of  mine.  All  bound  in  lilac  morocco.  Sit- 
ting down.  It's  just  as  if  they  were  slighted.  If  this 
kind  of  thing  goes  on,  I  shan't  play  any  more." 

"I'm  not  asking  you  to.  But  you  can  return  to  your 
work.  And  you  remind  me.  I  have  had  a  bill  from 
the  binders  of  those  books  sent  in  to  the  firm's  account. 
I  have  explained  that  this  should  be  charged  to  your 
private  account.  You  will  get  it  in  due  course.  Close 
the  door  quietly,  please,  as  you  go  out." 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  43 

On  his  way  back  to  his  own  room  Luke  again  en- 
countered Arthur  Dobson. 

"It's  all  right,"  said  Luke,  "I  said  you  didn't  tell  me, 
but  had  given  it  away  by  blushing  when  I  chanced  to 
speak  of  it." 

"Couldn't  you  have  thought  of  a  better  one  than 
that?" 

"Oh,  it's  all  right.  And  I  don't  mind  telling  you  I've 
given  him  a  pretty  good  dressing-down.  I  let  him 
have  the  rough  side  of  my  tongue." 

"Ah,"  said  Dobson,  "now  that  really  is  something 
like  a  lie." 

Luke  went  back  to  his  own  room  and  sat  there  deep 
in  thought.  Why  was  everybody  so  hard  and  cold? 
Diggle,  Dobson,  Mabel — they  were  all  so  cruel  and  rude 
to  him.  Nobody  loved  him.  Except  Dot  and  Dash, 
and  possibly  .  .  . 

No,  that  was  not  to  be  thought  of. 

All  the  same  it  reminded  him  that  it  was  time  for 
him  to  brush  his  hair  and  wash  his  little  hands,  and 
go  up  to  lunch  at  Gallows. 

2 

It  was  a  large  luncheon  party,  for  Gallows  was  full  of 
guests.  Everybody  was  very  merry  and  bright,  except 
Luke.  Tyburn  was  specially  elated,  for  his  little  drive 
with  the  zebras  had  only  cost  thirteen  hundred  alto- 
gether. There  had  apparently  been  a  terrific  rag  the 
night  before.  While  the  guests  were  at  dinner,  Tyburn 


44  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

arranged  for  a  number  of  wild  beasts  to  be  brought  up 
from  the  Mammoth  Circus.  One  was  put  into  the  bed- 
room of  each  guest  to  greet  him  or  her  on  going  to 
bed.  No,  there  had  been  no  real  damage  done.  One 
of  the  lions  had  fainted.  It  had  been  given  sal  volatile, 
and  had  recovered.  Only  three  of  the  animals  and  two 
of  the  guests  were  missing.  And  one  of  the  guests 
was  a  Bishop  who  had  never  been  really  wanted.  Jona 
told  the  whole  story  hilariously. 

Why  was  it,  Luke  asked  himself,  that  she  was  al- 
ways so  merry  and  bright  with  others,  and  so  very  dif- 
ferent when  she  was  with  him?  Could  it  be  that  she 
wore  a  mask  to  the  rest  of  the  world,  and  disclosed 
her  real  self  only  to  him?  It  could.  It  could  also  be 
just  the  other  way  round.  That  was  the  annoying  part 
of  it. 

He  was  depressed  during  lunch.  The  story  of  Ty- 
burn's practical  joke  of  the  previous  evening  had  upset 
him.  He  did  not  like  these  practical  jokes.  He  was 
nervous.  He  felt  that  at  any  moment,  at  a  precon- 
certed signal,  the  table  might  blow  up,  or  the  ceiling 
fall  down.  Everybody  else  would  laugh,  and  he  would 
hate  it.  He  seldom  laughed  at  anything  anybody  else 
laughed  at,  though  he  enjoyed  some  little  jokes  of  his 
own  that  nobody  else  seemed  to  appreciate.  Especially 
Mabel.  She  seemed  to  be  enjoying  herself  at  the  other 
side  of  the  table,  laughing  at  the  stories  that  Major 
Capstan  was  telling  her.  From  the  Major's  expression, 
Luke  diagnosed  that  the  stories  were  not  quite — well, 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  45 

not  exactly — oh,  you  know.  Would  it  be  Doom  Dag- 
shaw  or  Major  Capstan?  Oh,  what  was  he  thinking 
of? 

Why  had  he  not  been  put  next  to  Jona?  Why  did 
the  girl  on  his  right,  whom  he  had  never  met  before, 
persist  in  addressing  him  as  Funny  face?  Why  is  a 
mouse  when  it  spins?  The  world  was  full  of  conun- 
drums. 

In  the  garden  after  lunch,  Jona  came  straight  up  to 
him. 

"We  are  going  to  play  games,"  she  said. 

"What  games?" 

"Well,  this  morning  we  played  leap-frog  down  the 
stairs.  That  was  a  little  idea  of  Bill's." 

Luke  had  noticed  at  lunch  that  two  of  the  guests 
wore  sticking-plaster  on  their  noses.  This  explained 
it. 

"I  don't  think  I  should  like  playing  leap-frog,"  he 
said.  "I  sometimes  play  at  boats  with  Dot." 

"We'll  play  at  hide-and-seek,"  said  Jona.  "You  and 
I  will  hide  together.  Come  along." 

They  hid  in  the  cool  dusk  of  the  tool-shed.  Jona 
sat  on  the  wheelbarrow  and  talked,  and  talked,  and 
talked. 

At  the  end  of  half-an-hour,  Luke  had  failed  to  ask 
her  what  she  had  meant  by  certain  things  on  the  day 
that  she  had  called  at  his  office.  He  made  rather  a 
specialty  of  not  being  able  to  say  anything  that  he 
particularly  wanted  to  say. 


46  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

He  said :  "It's  funny  they've  not  found  us  yet." 

"Not  so  very  funny,"  said  Jona.  "You  see,  I  for- 
got to  tell  any  of  them  that  we  were  going  to  play 
this  game.  Here's  one  of  the  gardeners  coming. 
Damn.  I  suppose  we'd  better  join  the  rest  of  the 
crowd." 

It  was  not  until  Mabel  and  Luke  were  leaving  that 
Luke  got  a  chance  of  another  word  with  Jona. 

"We're  leaving  for  town  to-morrow,"  said  Jona. 
"You'll  write  and  tell  me  everything  that's  in  your 
old  head,  won't  you?" 

Luke  felt  that  he  ought  not  to  write.  Mabel  would 
not  like  it.  It  would  be  wrong. 

"Thanks,"  he  said,  "we  so  seldom  have  any  postage 
stamps  in  the  house.  And  I've  lost  my  Onoto  pen, 
and  I  sprained  my  wrist  falling  off  my  bicycle." 

"Oh,  do  write,  Lukie  dear."  She  held  out  her  hand 
to  him. 

"Good-by,"  he  said,  and  ran  down  the  steps.  At 
the  bottom  of  the  steps  stood  the  cab,  an  interesting 
antique,  which  was  to  convey  Mabel  home.  Mabel 
and  Major  Capstan  were  waiting  near  the  door. 

"You  only  took  about  twenty  minutes  saying  good-by 
to  Lady  Tyburn,"  said  Mabel.  "I'm  giving  Major 
Capstan  a  lift.  If  you  think  it's  fair  on  the  horse  to 
ask  it  to  draw  the  three  of  us,  get  in,  of  course.  Other- 
wise, it's  beautiful  weather  for  a  nice  walk." 

"I  will  walk/'  said  Luke.  "I  prefer  it."  He  wished 
to  be  alone. 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  47 

He  sat  down  on  the  first  milestone  in  the  road,  and 
meditated  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 

Mabel.  His  wife.  He  was  very  good  to  her.  He 
had  been  perfectly  faithful  to  her.  And  was  it  worth 
while?  What  did  she  think  about  him?  How  much 
did  she  care  for  him?  There  were  two  men  after 
her.  He  seemed  to  visualize  the  situation  as  a  scrap 
from  the  stop-press  of  a  newspaper. 

1.  MABEL. 

2.  DOOM. 

3.  CAPSTAN. 

Also  ran.     Luke  Sharper,  Esq. 


He  recalled  some  of  the  things  Jona  had  said  to  him 
in  the  tool-shed.  She  had  been  rather  frank  in  speak- 
ing of  her  husband. 

"Bill's  wonderful,"  she  said.  "He  caught  the  tiger 
last  night.  When  the  keeper  couldn't  get  it.  He  does 
everything  well.  He  is  the  most  fascinating  man  in 
the  world — until  you  get  used  to  him.  I've  got  used 
to  him.  He  fascinates  all  women.  That  would  not 
matter  so  much,  but  nearly  all  women  fascinate  him. 
I  pretend  not  to  notice  it.  I  think  he  does  it  partly 
to  see  how  I  will  take  it.  I  remain  merry  and  bright. 
With  a  breaking  heart,  you  understand.  How  much 
longer  I  shall  be  able  to  stand  it,  I  do  not  know.  Oh, 
my  hands  are  so  cold." 

He  had  noticed  a  pair  of  the  gardener's  gloves  lying 


48  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

on  the  lawn-mower.  He  handed  them  to  her.  She 
flung  them  away,  a  little  petulantly  it  seemed  to  him. 

He  rose  from  the  milestone  and  walked  on.  Certain 
words  seemed  to  keep  time  with  his  footsteps.  "She 
wants  me  to  write  to  her.  And  I  ought  not.  She 
wants  me  to  write  to  her.  And  I  ought  not." 

He  passed  the  post-office,  and  turned  back  to  it 
again.  Went  on,  and  again  turned  back.  This  time 
he  entered  with  his  mind  all  bemused. 

"Have  you  any  nice  stamps?"  he  asked. 


CHAPTER  VII 

MABEL  looked  very  enraged  as  she  entered  the  house. 
"Anything  the  matter?"  he  enquired. 

"Yes.  You  might  not  think  so.  As  I  do,  probably 
you  wouldn't.  But  Ellen's  got  a  new  parasol,  and 
Kate's  got  a  swollen  knee,  and  has  got  to  have  it  up." 

"And  I  suppose  it  will  be  just  the  same  with  Ellen's 
parasol.  I  suppose  you  wanted  it  the  other  way  round 
— Dot  to  have  the  parasol  and  Ellen  to  have  the " 

"I  wanted  nothing  of  the  kind.  Why  should  I 
want  my  cook  to  go  peacocking  about  with  a  pink 
parasol,  making  a  fool  of  herself,  and  bringing  dis- 
grace on  the  house?  Why  should  I  want  Kate  to  be 
incapacitated  from  doing  her  proper  work?" 

"I  think,"  said  Luke,  "I  must  go  and  see  it." 

"Go  and  see  Kate's  knee?    Don't  be  indelicate." 

"No,  I  meant  the  parasol.  I  should  imagine  that 
Dot's  knee  has  solely  a  pathological  interest  at  present. 
But  I  did  mean  the  parasol — I  swear  it.  How  did  it 
come  about?" 

"Love  of  finery.  Vanity.  Passion  for  wasting  her 
money." 

"Oh,  this  time  I  meant  the  knee — not  the  parasol." 

49 


50  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

"Well,  that  was  just  absolute  selfishness.  All  serv- 
ants love  to  get  swollen  knees,  and  chilblains  and 
chapped  hands.  They  like  to  make  a  fuss  about  them- 
selves. And  to  make  their  employer  pay  a  substitute 
to  do  their  work.  They're  all  like  that.  It  was  just 
the  same  before  I  married.  Yes,  every  housemaid  I 
employ.  Contracts  these  swollen  kneeses.  They  only 
do  it  to  annoy.  Because  they  know  it  teases." 

"But  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?  Have 
you  got  medical  advice?  Do  you  think  a  nurse  will 
be  needed?  When  I  had  the  measles  the  only  things 
I  fancied  were- " 

"Kate  has  not  got  measles.  She's  got  a  cold  com- 
press, and  she's  got  the  entire  contents  of  the  plate- 
chest  to  clean.  And  when  she's  finished  that,  I'll  find 
her  something  else.  If  she  thinks  she  can't  work  sit- 
ting down,  she  will  discover  that  she  is  mistaken." 

"Wait  a  minute.  I've  got  a  joke.  A  real  one  this 
time.  Dot  with  a  swollen  knee.  We  shall  have  to  call 
her  Dot-and-go-one.  See?  Well,  why  don't  you 
laugh?  I  must  go  into  the  kitchen  and  tell  them  at 


once." 


Mabel  sighed  deeply.  There  were  simply  no  words 
for  him.  He  was  right  away  outside,  beyond  the 
limit.  In  a  few  minutes  he  came  back  again. 

"It  certainly  does  look  very  pink,"  he  said. 

"That's  the  effect  of  the  cold  compress.  Though  why 
on  earth  you  should " 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  51 

"I  didn't  mean  the  knee,  I  meant  the  parasol.  I'll 
swear  I  did." 

"Well,  whatever  you  meant,  I  wish  you  would  keep 
out  of  the  kitchen.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  address  the 
servants  by  nicknames.  I  wish  you  wouldn't  be  so 
abominably  familiar  with  them." 

"Familiar?  Well,  hang  it  all,  when  a  poor  girl's 
got  a  swollen  knee  it's  unfriendly  not  to  show  a  little 
sympathy.  It  does  no  harm.  I  just  chatted  her  on 
the  peak " 

"You ?" 

"As  I  said,  I  just  patted  her  on  the  cheek,  and  asked 
her  how  she  was  getting  on.  No  harm  in  that." 

"And  now  perhaps  you'll  tell  me  what  on  earth  I'm 
to  do  for  a  substitute.  I  don't  know  of  a  single  girl 
in  this  neighborhood  who  could  come  in  and  help." 

"I  have  it.  I  can  save  the  situation.  I  have  an 
idea.  On  the  i6th  inst,  at  Jawbones,  Halfpenny  Hole, 
Surrey,  Mr.  Luke  Sharper,  of  an  idea.  Both  doing 
well." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  what  you  are  talking 
about?" 

"I'm  talking  about  old  Vessunt.  He's  a  foreman. 
Up  at  the  factory.  Fine  old  chap.  Religious  but  quite 
honest.  He's  got  a  daughter,  Effie.  Very  superior 
girl.  And  she's  looking  for  a  job.  I  can  get  her  for 
you  to-morrow  morning.  Effie  Vessunt.  Rather  bright 
and  sparkling,  what?" 

"At  any  rate,  I  can  see  her." 


52  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

"You  can,  even  with  the  naked  eye.  But  I  say,  yon 
know,  she  really  is  rather  superior.  She'll  have  to 
have  her  meals  with  us." 

"If  I  engage  her,  she  will  feed  in  the  kitchen.*' 

"Mabel,  must  you  always  disagree  with  me?  Have 
you  no  spirit  of  compromise?  Can't  you  meet  me 
half  way  in  a  little  thing  like  this?" 

"If  I  met  you  half  way  the  girl  would  have  her 
meals  in  the  passage.  And  I  don't  suppose  she'd  like 
it,  and  anyhow  she'd  be  in  everybody's  way." 

"And  this  when  I've  just  been  of  real  use  to  you." 

"So  you  ought  to  be.  You  were  indirectly  respon- 
sible for  the  accident  that  gave  Kate  the  swollen  knee. 
It  was  your  wretched  old  push-bike  that  she  fell  over." 

Luke  wagged  his  ears.  "Indirectly,"  he  said. 
"There  are  many  of  us  in  it  indirectly.  Dunlop,  for 
instance.  Niggers  in  a  rubber  plantation.  Factories 
in  Coventry.  A  retail  shop  in  High  Holborn.  And 
me.  All  working  together.  Combining  and  elaborat- 
ing in  order  to  give  Dot  a  nasty  one  on  the  knee-cap. 
It's  rather  a  great  thought  when  you  come  to  think  it 
out  that  way." 

"I  can't  see  why  you  want  to  ride  that  old  job-lot 
of  scrap-iron  at  all.  You  might  just  as  well  go  by 
train,  now  that  the  new  line  is  opened.  All  my  friends 
do  it.  Why  can't  you  go  by  train?" 

"I  believe  I  know  the  answer  to  that  one.  Don't 
tell  me.  I'll  go  upstairs  and  think  it  out." 

He  went  up  to  the  frowsty  study-bedroom,  and  sat 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  53 

down  at  his  table.  Mechanically  he  drew  from  his 
pocket  the  sheet  of  thirty  stamps  with  which,  after  a 
few  disparaging  remarks,  the  lady  at  the  post-office  had 
supplied  him.  He  spread  them  out  before  him.  Thirty 
stamps.  Thirty  letters  to  Jona.  He  felt  inclined  to 
kiss  every  one  of  them. 

He  did  not  do  so.  He  reflected  that  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  affixing  them  to  the  envelope  he  would  put 
them  to  his  lips  in  any  case.  It  was  not  sense  to  do 
the  same  piece  of  work  twice  over. 

Jona. 

Should  he,  or  shouldn't  he?  He  knew  that  he 
shouldn't.  Mabel  would  not  like  it.  He  ought  to  put 
Jona  out  of  his  mind,  and  to  burn  those  stamps.  But 
that  was  not  economical.  It  was  possible  to  have 
thirty  stamps,  and  yet  to  avoid  writing  thirty  love- 
letters  to  Jona,  He  folded  them  up  and  put  them  back 
in  his  pocket. 

What  was  it  he  had  come  up  to  do?  He  remem- 
bered. Mabel  had  asked  him  a  question.  He  ran 
downstairs  and  rejoined  her. 

"Because  of  the  season  ticket,"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  you  asked  me  why  I  couldn't  go  by  train.  I 
could  get  a  season  ticket,  but  I  should  lose  it  the  first 
day.  Then  they  fine  you  forty  shillings,  and  make  you 
buy  another.  And  that  would  go  on,  and  on,  and  on 
until  I  was  bankrupt  and  a  beggar.  And  we  should 
haye  to  go  down  the  High  Street  together,  singing 


54  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

hymns.    And  you  never  did  have  any  voice,  and " 

"Oh,  that'll  do,"  said  Mabel,  wearily. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  brightly,  "I've  brought  you  a 
present,  Mabel.  I  think  you  will  find  these  useful." 

He  produced  the  postage  stamps  from  his  pocket. 

"Just  a  few  stamps,"  he  said. 

"All  right,"  said  Mabel,  not  taking  them.  "Stick 
them  down  anywhere." 

"They  should  be  stuck  down  in  the  top  right-hand 
corner,"  he  said;  "but  I  leave  it  all  entirely  to  you." 

He  went  out.    She  had  not  even  thanked  him. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

EFFIE  VESSUNT  remained  at  Jawbones  for  a  fortnight. 
At  the  end  of  that  time  Dot's  knee  had,  so  to  speak, 
submitted  and  returned  to  barracks,  and  she  could  re- 
sume her  ordinary  work.  Effie  went  to  Bournemouth, 
where  she  took  a  position  as  kennel  maid. 

Luke  heard  nothing  from  Jona.  Occasionally  he  saw 
her  name  in  the  newspaper  as  one  of  those  present  at 
some  social  function.  Twice  he  read  that  her  husband 
had  been  fined  for  being  drunk  while  driving  a  motor- 
car. Beyond  this,  nothing.  Luke  adhered  to  his  reso- 
lution. He  never  sent  her  a  letter.  He  wrote  one.  It 
was  a  long  and  passionate  letter,  full  of  poetry  and 
beauty.  But  he  never  posted  it. 

He  made  a  paper  boat  of  it.  And  launched  it  on  that 
old-world  stream.  It  floated  away  under  the  bridge, 
and  on  and  on  for  nearly  twenty  yards.  Then  an  old- 
world  cow  came  down  to  the  edge  of  the  stream  and 
ate  it.  The  cow  died. 

And  so  the  months  passed  away.  He  completed  an- 
other little  monograph  for  the  firm  entitled  "Pulp,"  of 
which  he  said  beautifully  that  it  was  the  beginning  of 
all  jam  and  the  end  of  all  books.  Then  he  remembered 

55 


56  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

that  Jona  had  rather  seemed  to  encourage  him  in  his 
idea  of  writing  his  biography.  He  planned  it  all  out 
in  his  mind.  He  pictured  himself  wrongly  suspected, 
loathed  by  everybody  (except  Jona),  suffering  horribly, 
terribly  ill.  He  thoroughly  enjoyed  it. 

He  enjoyed  it  so  much  that  he  felt  he  had  to  tell 
Mabel  about  it.  He  did. 

"Mabel,"  he  said,  "have  you  ever  realized  that  under 
certain  circumstances  the  most  awful  things  would  hap- 
pen to  me  that  ever  befell  the  hero  of  a  melodrama? 
Just  take  the  train  of  events.  Effie  has  an  illegitimate 
child.  She  writes  and  tells  you  about  it." 

"But  she  wouldn't,"  said  Mabel.  "She  was  with  me 
for  a  fortnight,  and  I  always  kept  her  in  her  place." 

"Well,  she  refuses  to  say  who  the  father  is." 

"Why?"  asked  Mabel.  ' 

"Because  the  story  can't  possibly  go  on  if  she  doesn't. 
Please  don't  interrupt  me  again  until  I've  finished. 
EfEe  has  no  money.  She  goes  to  see  her  father,  who 
will  take  her  in,  but  not  the  child.  It's  an  accepted 
convention  that  the  unmarried  mother  must  be  parted 
from  her  child.  So  EfEe  and  the  baby  turn  up  here. 
I  say  that  they  shall  stay.  You  say  that  in  that  case 
you'll  go,  which  you  do,  having  previously  dismissed 
Dot  and  Dash.  In  consequence,  everybody  in  this 
neighborhood  cuts  me,  I  am  turned  out  of  my  busi- 
ness, and  as  the  dates  agree,  I  am  believed  to  be  the 
father  of  the  child.  Effie  has  the  housework  to  do  as 
well  as  the  baby  to  look  after,  and  in  consequence,  I 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  57 

am  horribly  neglected.  The  handle  of  the  front  door 
is  not  polished,  and  when  an  old  friend  comes  down 
from  London  to  see  me,  I  have  nothing  to  give  him  for 
lunch  except  cold  meat  and  a  fruit  tart  that  is  no 
longer  in  its  first  youth.  So  I  take  a  week-end  at 
Brighton  without  Effie.  She  cleans  my  straw  hat  with 
oxalic  acid,  which  I  have  bought  for  her.  I  throw 
away  the  hat  and  buy  another.  While  I  am  at  Brighton 
she  kills  herself  and  the  baby  with  what  is  left  of  the 
oxalic  acid.  At  the  inquest  I  am  unable  to  say  any- 
thing except  Took  here/  am  severely  censured  by 
the  coroner's  jury,  and  nearly  lynched  by  the  crowd 
outside.  I  go  back  to  the  house  and  find  a  letter  on 
the  clock,  which  entirely  clears  me  and  tells  me  that 
the  father  of  the  child  is  the  son  of  Dobson,  the  dirty 
dog  who  sneaked  my  partnership.  So  I  go  to  see 
Dobson  and  find  that  he  has  just  got  the  news  that 
his  son  is  dead.  I  therefore  burn  Effie's  letter  so  as 
to  get  the  sole  evidence  of  my  innocence  out  of  the 
way,  and  then  have  a  haemorrhage  of  the  brain.  And 
you  divorce  me,  and  then " 

"Look  here,  Luke,  you'd  better  go  and  lie  down  for 
a  little.  You've  been  bicycling  in  the  sun,  you  know." 
,  "What  do  you  mean?  Wouldn't  it  happen  so? 
Isn't  it  all  absolutely  inevitable?" 

"Not  absolutely,"  said  Mabel.  "The  previous 
knowledge  that  one  has  of  you  would  go  for  some- 
thing. There  was  never  any  sign  of  an  attachment  of 
that  kind  between  you  and  Effie.  If  you  had  been  the 


58  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

father  of  the  child  you  would  most  certainly  not  have 
left  her  alone,  without  any  provision,  at  the  time  the 
child  was  born.  I  should  be  quite  certain  of  that. 
So  would  the  two  maids  here.  Effie  would  apply  to 
young  Dobson,  and  failing  him,  to  old  Dobson.  This 
is  about  the  last  house  to  which  she  would  come.  Her 
instinct  would  be  to  keep  away  from  the  neighbor- 
hood where  she  was  known.  If  her  own  father  agreed 
to  take  her  in,  it's  almost  certain  that  he  would  take 
the  baby  as  well.  Your  ideas  about  that  convention 
are  exaggerated,  and  old-fashioned.  If  she  did  come 
here,  and  you  insisted  on  her  staying,  I  should  put 
up  with  it,  though  I  should  not  like  it,  until  some 
arrangement  could  be  made  for  her  to  go  elsewhere 
with  her  child.  And  that  arrangement  could  be  made 
easily  and  quickly.  I  do  not  see  why  I  should  dis- 
miss the  maids,  and  if  I  did  they  are  paid  with  your 
money,  and  are  much  more  devoted  to  you  than  they 
are  to  me.  You  would  only  have  to  speak  and  they 
would  remain.  No  seducer  would  bring  his  victim 
and  her  child  to  the  house  where  his  wife  was  living. 
You  would  be  thought  quixotic  but  not  guilty.  If 
Effie  saw  that  you  were  cut  by  everybody  and  that  she 
had  brought  trouble  on  you,  she  would  be  particularly 
careful  not  to  cause  more  serious  trouble  for  you  by 
committing  suicide.  And  if  she  committed  suicide, 
she  would  not  implicate  you  in  it  by  making  you  buy 
the  poison.  She  would  neither  make  fruit  tart,  nor 
clean  a  straw  hat,  because  she  simply  would  not  have 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  59 

the  time.  You  don't  know  much  about  young  babies, 
do  you?  I  should  not  divorce  you,  and  should  have 
no  evidence  on  which  I  could  get  a  divorce.  In  fact, 
the  whole  thing's  skittles.  By  the  way,  when  did  Effie 
have  her  baby?" 

"She  never  did,"  said  Luke  despondently.  "That's 
always  the  way.  Whenever  I  make  a  beautiful  thing, 
some  cow  always  gets  it.  It's  happened  before.  If  I 
wrote  my  beautiful  biography,  some  cow  would  parody 
it.  The  world's  full  of  cows." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry,  of  course,"  said  Mabel.  "You 
can  do  most  incredibly  foolish  things.  You  do  fre- 
quently fail  to  say  what  you  should  say.  But  even 
with  those  advantages,  I  doubt  if  it  would  be  possible 
for  you  to  incur  so  much  suffering  and  suspicion  as 
you  describe.  I  shall  have  to  think  out  some  other 
little  martyrdom  for  you." 


CHAPTER  IX 


LOOKING  out  of  his  window  at  the  office  in  the  after- 
noon, Luke  Sharper  saw  a  motor-car  stop  in  front  of 
the  draper's  opposite.  Lady  Tyburn  got  out  and  en- 
tered the  shop.  So  she  was  back. 

Putting  on  his  hat,  so  far  as  his  agitated  ears  would 
permit,  Luke  rushed  out  into  the  street,  crossed  the 
road,  and  met  her  as  she  came  out. 

"Jona,"  he  panted. 

"Lukie,  at  last,"  she  gasped. 

"You  were  not  long  in  the  shop !" 

"Just  the  same  length  that  I  am  outside.  I  have 
been  there  three  times  to-day.  Standing  there,  look- 
ing up  at  your  window.  Every  time  I  bought  a  yard 
of  elastic.  Do  you  want  any  elastic?" 

"No,  thank  you.    Will  you  have  a  cup  of  tea?" 

Emotion  would  not  permit  her  to  speak.  But  she 
nodded  and  got  into  the  car.  He  followed  her.  On 
the  way  to  the  confectioner's  neither  of  them  spoke  a 
word. 

At  the  tea-room  the  following  conversation  took 
place:  "Tea?" 

"Please." 

61 


62  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

"Milk?" 

"Thanks." 

"Sugar?" 

"No." 

"Buns?" 

"One." 

And  then  they  sat  and  gazed  at  one  another,  slowly 
champing  buns  in  which  they  took  no  interest  what- 
ever. After  twenty  minutes  Lady  Tyburn  said :  "My 
chauffeur  has  had  no  tea.  He  must  drive  to  Gallows 
and  have  tea  at  once.  Will  you  come  too?" 

"As  far  as  the  gates,"  he  said.  "I'll  walk  back. 
I'm  not  coming  in." 

"Do,"  she  said.  "Bill  has  borrowed  a  panther  from 
the  Mammoth  Circus,  and  they're  having  larks  with 
it  in  the  billiard-room." 

Luke  shook  his  head.  "I  don't  like  panthers,"  he 
said  wearily.  "I  don't  like  anything  much.  Mabel 
looks  like  a  panther  sometimes." 

During  the  twenty  minutes*  drive  up  to  Gallows 
neither  of  them  spoke. 

When  they  reached  the  gate,  Jona  said:  "Better 
come  up  to  the  house  and  finish  our  talk." 

"No,"  said  Luke ;  "stay  here  a  little.  There's  some- 
thing I  must  say  to  you.  I've  been  trying  to  say  it 
for  the  last  hour.  It  gets  stuck.  I  shall  pull  it  out 
somehow." 

Lady  Tyburn  sent  the  car  away,  and  they  sat  down 
on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree.  He  sat  on  one  side,  and 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  63 

she  on  the  other,  back  to  back.  They  could  not  bear 
to  look  one  another  in  the  face.  Presently  she  said: 

"You're  trembling,  Lukie.  I  can  feel  it.  Trem- 
bling. Like  a  jelly." 

"You're  another,"  said  Luke.  "Oh,  Jona.  There's 
something  I've  been  trying  to  ask  you  for  the  last  ten 
months,  and  perhaps  there  will  never  be  another  oppor- 
tunity. Do  you  remember  when  you  came  to  my 
office?" 

She  drove  her  elbow  lightly  into  his  ribs.  It  seemed 
to  him  to  signify  she  did  remember. 

"There  were  things  you  said — 'Will  you  help  your- 
self/ with  your  hands  out — 'magnet  and  tintack' — 'I 
made  a  mistake  once.'  You  said  those  things,  Jona." 

"What  a  memory  the  young  man  has  got,"  said 
Jona,  wistfully. 

"Yes,  but  what  did  you  mean?" 

"Well,  they  were  what  is  called  conversation.  You 
talk  too,  you  know,  sometimes." 

"But  that  doesn't  tell  me  what  you  meant." 

"They  meant,"  she  said  in  a  plain,  matter-of-fact 
way,  "that  I  ought  not  to  have  married  Bill.  I  ought 
to  have  married  you,  Lukie.  My  mistake  entirely. 
Don't  apologize." 

She  jerked  herself  backward,  and  he  fell  off  the  tree. 
He  lay  on  the  grass  moaning.  "O  crikey!  O  crikey! 
O  crikey,  crikey,  crikey !" 


64  IF  WINTER  DON'T 


He  got  up  slowly.  He  was  entirely  covered  with  small 
pieces  of  dried  grass.  Jona  came  round  the  end  of  the 
tree  and  began  picking  pieces  of  grass  off  him. 

"You're  in  a  mess,"  she  said. 

"We're  both  in  a  mess/'  he  said.  "Right  in.  Up 
to  the  neck." 

"I  don't  know  how  much  longer  I  shall  be  able  to 
stand  it,"  said  Jona.  "In  London  it  was  actresses. 
Down  here  it's  ladies  from  the  Mammoth  Circus.  We 
have  three  equestriennes  and  a  tight-rope  dancer  stay- 
ing with  us,  and  he  makes  love  to  them  all.  He's  not 
been  sober — not  noticeably — for  the  last  six  weeks.  I 
still  keep  up  the  bright  badinage,  but  it  sometimes 
seems  artificial.  It's  wearing  thin.  Everything's 
wearing  thin.  Very  thin.  Oh  Lukie!" 

"Listen,"  said  Luke  resolutely.  "I'm  going  to  be 
noble.  This  is  little  Lukie,  underneath  his  straw  hat, 
being  noble.  Some  men  would  confess  their  love  for 
you.  They  would  pour  out  in  words  the  passion  that 
was  consuming  them.  I  shall  not.  In  fact,  you'll  have 
to  guess.  Only,  if  the  time  ever  does  come  that  you 
simply  cannot  stand  it  any  longer,  apply  to  me.  Appli- 
cations should  be  sent  to  the  office  address  in  care  of 
Mabel.  Write  distinctly.  Good-by,  Jona." 

He  tore  himself  from  her,  and  reeled  away,  not 
knowing  what  direction  he  was  taking. 

After  an  hour  he  found  himself  standing  in  front 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  65 

of  his  own  office.  It  was  just  as  well.  He  had  left 
his  bicycle  there. 

Diggle  came  down  the  stairs  into  the  street,  and 
Luke  walked  up  to  him  at  once:  "Can  I  have  that 
partnership  now?"  said  Luke. 

Diggle  glanced  at  his  watch. 

"Applications  of  this  kind,"  he  said,  "should  be 
made  in  office  hours.  It  is  now  after  six.  Good  eve- 
ning, Mr.  Sharper." 

Mechanically,  automatically,  not  knowing  what  he 
did,  Luke  prepared  for  his  ride  home  to  Jawbones. 
Then  he  became  aware  that  he  was  pushing  something 
along  on  the  pavement.  What  was  it?  It  was  a  bi- 
cycle. He  pushed  it  into  a  policeman.  The  policeman 
asked  him  to  take  it  into  the  road. 

He  walked  along  in  the  road  now,  still  wheeling  his 
bicycle,  and  looking  all  around  him. 

What  a  lot  of  shops  seemed  to  be  selling  brooms. 
Yes,  and  soap.  Long  bars  of  yellow  soap.  There 
were  big  advertisements  on  the  boardings.  He  read 
them  aloud:  "WASHO.  WORKS  BY  ITSELF." 

And  again:  "PINGO  FOR  THE  PAINT.  A 
PENNY  PACKET  OF  PINGO  DOES  THE 
TRICK."  There  was  a  picture  of  a  beautiful  lady 
using  Pingo,  her  face  expressing  rapture. 

What  did  it  all  mean? 

He  did  not  know.  But  it  meant  that  spring  was 
coming.  Spring,  with  its  daffodils,  its  pretty  little 
birds  and  all  the  other  things. 


•-.- 


. 


nor 


- . —  .       _ 

2HL  "WlL  "fiTiiianv 

ff  nnLti 
lint 


te^ar          v-;: 


nl 


JL    niltr  5EttST  3fe 


r. 
-  '  ill  JITnHEL. 


-     ^ 


68  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

entirely  filled  with  dust,  and  the  smell  of  decayed  fish, 
don't  you  think?' 

"Cheerful  talk  for  a  luncheon  party,  wasn't  it?  That 
man's  on  the  verge  of  a  breakdown.  Don't  like  it  at  all. 
That  wife  of  his  is  overdoing  it.  Shall  look  him  up 
again  next  week.  His  mind's  not  right.  He  forgot 
to  pay  for  the  lunch.  I  suggested  that  I  should  do  it, 
and  he  let  me.  Something  seriously  wrong  there. 
Seriously.  Have  a  drink." 

4 

Three  days  later  Mr.  Alfred  Jingle  resumed  the 
subject. 

"I  told  you  things  were  bad  with  Sharper.  They're 
worse.  Much.  I  was  there  this  morning.  Enquired 
at  his  business  place.  They  said  their  Mr.  Sharper 
had  gone  out.  Took  a  cab  to  Halfpenny  Hole.  Half- 
way there  spotted  Sharper  sitting  on  a  bank  by  the 
roadside  with  his  bicycle  beside  him.  Face  like  a  tor- 
tured hyena.  I  got  out  and  asked  him  what  he  was 
doing  there. 

"  'Nowhere  else  to  go,'  he  said.  'Spring-cleaning  at 
home.  And  now  they've  started  spring-cleaning  at  the 
office.  All  my  dear  little  children  piled  up  on  the  floor 
in  the  dust.' 

"Told  him  I  didn't  know  he  had  a  family. 

"  'I  mean  my  books.  Lilac  morocco.  At  my  own 
expense.  The  firm  wouldn't  stick  it.  Decorators  were 
sending  out  for  more  size  when  I  left.  I  can't  go  back 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  69 

there.  Even  if  there  were  no  spring-cleaning  I  couldn't 
go  to  Jawbones.  Mabel  gave  me  a  list  of  things  to  buy 
in  Dilborough.  Glass  soap  and  soft  paper.  I  mean 
soft  soap  and  glass  paper.  Lots  of  other  things.  I've 
forgotten  to  get  any  of  them.  All  I  can  do  is  to  sit  here 
until  the  world  comes  to  an  end/ 

"Well,  I  shoved  him  into  my  cab,  and  drove  back 
to  the  'Crown'  at  Dilborough.  On  the  way  I  tried 
to  buck  him  up  a  bit,  but  it  was  no  use.  He  was  abso- 
lutely broken-down.  I  asked  him  whose  turn  it  was 
to  pay  for  lunch,  and  he  said  he  thought  it  was  mine. 
Memory  going.  Well,  I  stuffed  a  drink  into  him  and 
took  nine  myself.  I  can  tell  you  I  needed  them.  Then 
I  got  him  to  go  back  to  business.  Said  he  must  save 
those  lilac-bound  children  of  his.  Bright  idea,  what? 
Then  I  told  him  he  could  buy  the  things  for  his  wife 
afterwards.  He  went  like  a  lamb,  too  broken  to  resist. 
I  confess  I  am  worried  about  him.  I  must  try  to  see 
him  again  if 

5 
a  chance  of  doing  so." 

(And  that  shows  you  again,  how  the  number  of 
a  chapter-section  may  be  used  economically.) 


CHAPTER  X 

LUKE  knocked  at  the  door  of  Mr.   Biggie's  room, 
and  entered. 

"I'm  back,"  he  said.  "Been  lunching  with  a  man. 
Can  I  have  a  partnership?" 

"Not  to-day,  Mr.  Sharper,"  said  Diggle.  "You 
should  be  more  reasonable.  The  whole  office  is  more 
or  less  disorganized  by  the  spring-cleaning.  It  seems 
to  me  that  you  try  to  make  more  trouble.  You  go  out 
a  great  deal  for  a  business  man." 

"I  have  to.  Things  for  my  wife,  you  know.  Soft 
glass  and  paper  soap.  Things  of  that  kind." 

"I  don't  wish  to  hear  about  it.  They  will  not 
be  actually  beginning  on  your  room  till  Monday.  It 
may  be  in  some  slight  disorder,  but  that  need  not  pre- 
vent you  from  going  back  there  and  getting  on  with 
your  work.  You  have  to  write  that  full-page  advertise- 
ment for  the  'Church  Times,'  you  remember." 

He  went  on  to  his  own  room.  He  picked  up  the 
little  booklets  from  the  floor,  dusted  each  one  carefully, 
and  wrapped  it  in  white  paper.  As  he  was  finishing 
the  last  a  letter  was  brought  in  to  him.  The  messenger 
was  waiting  for  an  answer.  It  was  in  Jona's  hand- 
writing. 

71 


72  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

"Darling  Lukie,"  she  wrote,  "I  can  bear  it  no  more. 
Take  me  away,  please.  Shall  I  come  along  to  your 
office,  or  will  you  call  for  the  goods?  Jona." 

He  collapsed  in  a  chair,  his  head  buried  in  his  hands. 

Half-an-hour  later  the  clerk  came  in  to  say  that 
the  messenger  was  still  waiting. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Luke. 

The  clerk  sat  down  for  half-an-hour.  Luke  still 
meditated.  Then  the  office  boy  came  in  to  fetch  the 
clerk.  It  was  necessary  to  do  something,  to  decide  at 
once.  His  promise  to  Mabel  had  been  quite  definite. 
He  would  bring  back  the  spring-cleaning  requisites  on 
his  bicycle  that  evening.  There  had  been  a  sardonic 
cruelty  in  sending  him  to  purchase  the  materials  for  his 
own  torture.  Still,  he  had  promised. 

Drawing  a  sheet  of  the  firm's  paper  with  the  memo, 
head  on  it  towards  him,  he  wrote  as  follows : 

"Jona:  I  can't  get  away  to  elope  with  you  to-day. 
My  wife  won't  let  me.  If  you  are  still  of  the  same 
mind  on  Saturday,  the  train  I  shall  take  for  Brighton 
leaves  Victoria  at  eleven." 

He  sent  the  letter  down  to  the  messenger,  and  then 
Diggle  entered. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  me  about  the  partnership?" 
said  Sharper. 

"No.  I  wanted  to  see  you  about  the  full-page 
advertisement  for  the  'Church  Times/  Have  you 
written  it?" 

"I've  not,  so  to  speak,  written  it." 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  73 

"Well,  Sharper,  I've  been  talking  to  Dobson  about 
you.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  your  feelings,  but  our  office 
space  here  is  very  limited.  We  are  of  the  opinion  that 
perhaps  the  amount  of  room  you  occupy  here  is  intrin- 
sically of  more  value  than  any  services  which  you 
render  to  the  business,  or  even  the  pleasure  that  your 
society  naturally  gives  us.  I  don't  know  if  you  take 
my  meaning." 

"Do  you  want  to  turn  me  out?"  said  Sharper. 

"Don't  put  it  like  that.  You  don't  seem  to  know 
anything  about  business.  You  never  do  any  work. 
You're  playing  about  with  Lady  Tyburn  in  a  way 
that'll  bring  scandal  on  the  firm.  But  we  don't  want 
to  turn  you  out.  We  don't  want  to  do  anything  harsh. 
All  we  say  is  that  we  think  it  would  be  better  for  all 
concerned  if  you  don't  come  here  again.  I  think 
that  will  be  all.  Good  evening,  Mr.  Sharper." 

Luke  went  out  and  purchased  the  articles  Mabel  had 
asked  him  to  buy.  He  then  went  to  four  different 
chemists,  and  at  each  one  purchased  a  little  oxalic  acid, 
saying  in  each  case  that  he  wanted  it  to  clean  a  straw 
hat. 

With  his  bicycle  laden  considerably  above  the  Plim- 
soll  mark,  he  pedalled  wearily  homewards.  He  only 
fell  off  once,  and  it  was  a  pity  that  this  broke  the  bottle 
of  turpentine,  for  he  happened  to  be  carrying  it  in 
the  inside  pocket  of  his  coat. 


CHAPTER  XI 


shall  dine  in  the  kitchen,"  said  Mabel.  "The 
dining-room  and  drawing-room  are  finished,  but  I 
am  keeping  them  locked  up  until  the  workmen  are  otrt 
of  the  house,  and  all  the  mess  is  cleared  away." 

"You  are  an  excellent  housekeeper,"  gaid  Luke. 
"Won't  it  be  jolly  to  dine  in  the  kitchen  with  Dot  and 
Dash?" 

"Ellen  will  sit  in  the  garden  while  we  are  at  dinner. 
Kate  will  wait  on  us  as  usual.  I  am  sorry  to  say  that 
a  workman  spilt  a  pail  of  whitewash  in  your  room. 
Most  of  it  went  over  your  books.  After  dinner  we  will 
sit  in  the  den." 

"Mabel,"  said  Luke,  "when  I  told  you  of  the  suffer- 
ing that  would  happen  to  me  in  consequence  of  Erne 
having  the  illegitimate  child,  which  she  never  did,  you 
said  that  it  was  all  impossible.  Part  of  it  has  come 
true.  They  don't  want  me  to  go  to  the  business  any 
more,  and  they've  said  so." 

"Have  they?"  said  Mabel.  "Of  course  I  knew  they 
would.  I've  been  expecting  it  for  some  time  past. 
You  see,  you're  not  fitted  for  business.  I  don't  know 

75 


76  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

that  you're  particularly  fitted  for  anything.  Well, 
when  you  talked  to  me  about  that  Effie  nonsense,  I  told 
you  I'd  arrange  a  little  martyrdom  for  you  if  I  could. 
Haven't  I  done  it?" 

"You  have.    In  the  interest  of  my  sanity " 

"In  the  interests  of  your  what?" 

"In  the  interests  of  my  sanity  I  shall  go  to  Brighton 
for  the  week-end." 

"Do,"  said  Mabel.  "You're  terribly  in  the  way  here. 
It's  about  the  first  sensible  idea  you've  had  for  this 
last  year." 

By  half -past  ten  next  morning  he  was  on  the  plat- 
form at  Victoria  station.  Would  Jona  be  there? 

Apparently  not.  He  caught  a  distant  glimpse  of 
Lord  Tyburn,  but  it  was  not  with  him  that  he  was 
proposing  to  elope.  Besides,  Tyburn  was  accompanied 
by  a  somewhat  highly  painted  and  decorated  young 
lady.  Luke  waited  till  the  last  moment,  and  waited  in 
vain.  He  stepped  into  the  train  just  as  it  was  mov- 
ing off. 

2 

At  this  point  we  will  ask  our  Mr.  Alfred  Jingle  to 
oblige  again. 

"Tell  you  what,"  he  said  to  his  artist  friend.  "I 
was  wrong  about  Sharper  again.  I  thought  he'd 
reached  the  limit  of  human  mess  and  martyrdom.  He 
hadn't.  He'd  not  got  within  a  street  of  it.  He's  there 
now.  Right  up  to  the  limit  and  leaning  over  the  edge. 

"Down  at  Brighton  this  week-end  with  my  old 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  77 

missus.  Sitting  out  on  the  pier.  Sunday  morning. 
Listening  to  the  band.  Overture  to  'William  Tell/ 
Always  is.  Whenever  I  strike  a  band,  it's  'William 
Tell'  or  'Zampa/  Every  time. 

"Suddenly  the  missus  says  to  me,  'Who's  that  old 
chap  over  there  with  a  face  like  a  turnip?' 

"I  looked  up.  It  was  Luke  Sharper.  Looking 
ghastly.  His  hair  was  grey.  His  face  was  grey.  Even 
his  flannel  trousers  were  grey.  All  grey  and  worn. 
I  don't  mean  the  trousers  particularly.  General  effect, 
you  know.  Ears  drooping  down  with  no  life  or  motion 
in  them.  I  went  up  to  him  and  asked  him  what  brought 
him  down  to  Brighton. 

'  'Go  away,'  he  said.    'I'm  a  leper.     I'm  an  outcast. 
I'm  a  pariah  dog.    Go  before  I  bring  misery  on  you/ 

"I  told  him  I'd  chance  it,  and  asked  him  again  what 
he  was  doing  at  Brighton. 

"  'I've  eloped,'  he  said. 

"'With  whom?'  I  asked. 

"  'Nobody.  She  never  turned  up.  That's  not  my 
fault.  In  the  sight  of  Heaven  we  are  all  equal,  and 
I'm  an  eloper.  I'm  a  faithless  hound.  That's  not  all, 
Jingle.  They've  thrown  me  out  of  the  business.  And 
that's  not  all.  I  bought  four  packets  of  oxalic  acid. 
I've  put  them  down  where  Mabel  is  bound  to  see  them. 
There's  one  on  her  pillow,  one  on  the  clock,  one  on 
the  piano,  and  one  on  the  mantelpiece.  You  see  ?  I'm 
a  murderer.  Mabel  will  take  the  hint,  and  will  commit 
suicide.  That  will  upset  Dot  and  Dash,  and  they  will 


78  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

commit  suicide  too.  I  only  hope  the  man  who  spilt 
whitewash  over  my  bookcase  will  commit  suicide  as 
well.  Don't  come  and  see  me  in  the  condemned  cell. 
I  don't  want  to  see  anybody  any  more.  That's  why 
I'm  sitting  on  Brighton  pier  on  a  warm  Sunday 
morning.' 

"  'You've  got  this  wrong,  Sharper/  I  said.  'I  know 
your  wife.  She  won't  commit  suicide  because  you've 
gone.  She  possibly  might  have  done  it  if  you  had 
stopped.  So  your  maids  won't  be  upset,  and  they 
won't  commit  suicide  either.  And  the  painter's  man 
who  spilt  the  whitewash  over  your  books  will  be 
enjoying  the  joke  over  his  Sunday  dinner.  You're 
no  good  at  the  leper-and-pariah  business.  Come  over 
and  be  introduced  to  my  missus.' 

"'What  you  say  might  be  true  if  I  were  a  real 
man,  but  I  have  horrible  doubts.  I  don't  feel  like  a 
real  man/ 

"  'Come  off  it/  I  said.  'What  do  you  feel  like, 
then?' 

"  'I  feel  like  a  lot  of  tripe  out  of  some  damn-silly 
book/ 

"Well,  I  took  him  over  to  the  missus,  and  she  got 
on  the  buzz.  She's  an  energetic  talkist.  He  never 
got  time  to  say  he  was  a  leper  once.  Then  some  pals 
of  hers  came  up  to  talk  to  her,  and  he  and  I  escaped. 
I  asked  him  what  he  was  going  to  do.  He  said  he 
V(as  going  back  to  Halfpenny  Hole  directly,  in  order 
to  save  the  coroner's  officer  the  trouble  of  fetching  him. 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  79 

Then  he  asked  me  to  have  a  drink.  We  had  three 
each.  He  rushed  off  to  the  station,  and  left  me  to  pay. 
A  man  in  that  state  is  not  fit  to  be  alone.  And  it's 
not  too  safe  for  anybody  who  happens  to  be  with  him. 
I  let  him  go." 

3 

It  was  half -past  five  when  Luke  got  back  to  Jawbones 
again.  He  rang  the  bell.  As  the  door  was  not  opened, 
he  fang  again. 

Then  from  the  garden  behind  the  house  he  heard 
the  sound  of  voices  and  laughter.  He  recognized  the 
laugh.  It  was  Dot's.  It  was  a  full-bodied,  fruity 
laugh.  Luke  walked  round  the  house  and  into  the 
garden  to  see  what  was  happening. 

On  the  lawn  sat  Dot,  Dash,  and  the  first  and  second 
footmen  from  Gallows.  A  table  showed  that  tea, 
including  bottled  beer,  had  been  served  with  some 
profusion.  But  the  banquet  was  over  and  all*  four 
reclined  in  deck-chairs,  smoking  cigarettes. 

Luke  stared  at  them  blankly.  "Afraid  I'm  rather 
interrupting/'  he  stammered. 

"Well,  old  bean,"  said  Dot.  "You  do  come  as  a 
bit  of  a  surprise.  We'd  not  expected  you  before 
Tuesday.  But  our  two  gentlemen  friends — Albert  and 
Hector — I  think  you've  met  them — have  to  be  back  at 
their  job  at  six.  So  we  shan't  keep  you  long.  The 
kitchen  door's  open  if  you  care  to  slip  into  the  house 
and  wait." 

Luke's  powerful  mind  made  a  rapid  deduction.    This 


8o  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

could  never  have  happened  if  Mabel  had  not  been 
powerless  to  prevent  it.  So  Mabel  must  have  .  .  . 
Yes,  the  oxalic  acid. 

"Can  you  tell  me,"  he  said  in  sepulchral  tones,  "where 
I  shall  find  the  body  of  my  poor  wife?" 

"Afraid  I  can't,"  said  Dot.  Her  laughter  jarred 
on  him. 

"Let  us,"  he  said,  "be  reverent.    When  did  she  die?" 

Here  Dash,  under  the  pink  parasol,  broke  in,  "But 
she's  alive.  And  I'll  bet  she's  a  good  deal  livelier  than 
she's  been  for  years  past.  I  helped  her  pack,  and  it 
was  some  trousseau.  The  old  girl's  done  a  bunk.  See? 
Skipped  it  with  a  gentleman  friend  of  hers." 

"You  might  have  mentioned  that  before,"  said  Luke, 
aggrieved.  "I  quite  thought  that  something  was  the 
matter." 

"Well,  she's  left  a  letter  for  you  in  your  almost-silver 
cigarette  case.  You'll  find  it  in  the  bath-room,  balanced 
on  'the  hot-water  tap.  You  run  along  and  read  it. 
You're  the  least  little  bit  in  the  way  at  this  tea  party." 


4 

Seated  on  the  edge  of  the  bath,  Luke  read  as  follows" 
"You  could  always  see  every  point  of  view  except 
one,  and  that  was  your  wife's. 

"Once  or  twice  the  sting  of  your  jelly-fish  of  a  con- 
science made  you  try  to  be  nice  to  me.  There  are 
words  and  acts  from  a  man  to  a  woman  which  may  be 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  81 

lovely  to  the  woman  if  they  come  spontaneously  and 
naturally.  If  they  are  produced  as  by  a  force-pump, 
they  are  an  insult.  If  you  tried  to  hide  the  pump,  it 
was  a  poor  effort. 

"When  you  took  up  with  that  Tyburn  minx,  I  thought 
that  you  had  realized  the  situation,  that  you  saw  that 
I  found  life  with  you  detestable  and  intolerable,  and 
that  you  meant  to  give  me  a  chance  to  divorce  you. 
I  employed  a  private  detective  with  what  I  had  saved 
out  of  the  house-money,  and  had  you  watched.  The 
detective  reported  that  there  was  nothing  good  enough 

— or  bad  enough for  the  High  Court,  and  that  the 

woman  seemed  to  be  doing  most  of  the  work. 

"So  as  the  mixture  of  cowardice  and  selfishness 
which  you  call  your  conscience  would  not  let  you  give 
me  a  chance  to  divorce  you,  I  determined  to  make  you 
divorce  me.  The  first  thing  to  do  was  to  get  you  out 
of  the  way.  It  is  so  trying  and  undignified  to  elope 
if  a  husband  is  looking  on,  and  possibly  interfering. 
So  I  adopted  a  system  of  intensive  spring-cleaning. 
I  don't  think  I  left  out  anything  which  could  incon- 
venience and  annoy  you.  It  went  on  and  on.  No  house 
has  been  spring-cleaned  like  this  since  the  world  began. 
I  fancy  it  was  the  whitewash  over  your  books  that 
finally  shunted  you.  You  left  in  the  early  morning.  I 
packed  at  leisure  and  left  in  the  evening,  taking  with 
me  a  gentleman  who  financed  that  great  success,  Doom 
Dagshaw's  Mammoth  Circus. 

"As  he  is  not  in  the  book,  I  may  mention  that  he  is 


82  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

a  Mr.  Nathan  Samuel.  But  no  matter.  A  nose  by  any 
other  name  would  smell  as  efficiently.  He  is  a  true 
Christian  with  no  fault  except  his  love  for  me. 

"The  necessary  particulars  will  be  sent  to  your 
solicitors,  and  I  hope  you  will  then  get  busy. 

"Ta-ta,  old  crock.    Vours,  Mabel/' 

"P.S. — You  shouldn't  leave  oxalic  acid  about  like 
that.  Don't  you  know  it's  a  poison?  I've  hidden  it 
underneath  your  dress-shirts,  in  case  of  accidents." 

Luke  put  the  letter  down.  There  was  a  step  outside 
the  door  and  Dot  entered. 

"Thought  I  should  find  you  here,"  said  Dot. 
"Everything  all  right?" 

"Couldn't  be  better.  But  why  did  she  leave  the  letter 
on  the  hot- water  tap?" 

"Oh,  that  was  just  a  little  joke  of  hers.  She  said 
you  always  got  into  any  hot  water  that  might  be  going 
about,  and  so  you'd  be  sure  to  find  it  there." 

"Do  you  see  what  this  means,  Dot?  It  means  that 
in  future  we  can  play  at  boats  without  any  fear  of  inter- 
ruption." 

"M'yes,"  said  Dot.  "It's  not  the  very  devil  of  a 
game,  is  it?  Been  over  the  house  yet?  I  must  say 
it  does  look  nice,  now  all  the  cleaning  and  decorating's 
finished.  Albert  and  Hector  both  noticed  it." 

"Yes,  very  nice.  I  suppose  you  and  Dash  would 
like  to  be  getting  dinner  for  me." 

"That's  what  we're  panting  after.  But  it  can't  be 
done,  because  there's  nothing  to  eat.  At  least,  there's 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  83 

nothing  for  you.  Besides,  after  this  afternoon  we  are 
both  emotionally  worn-out.  And  that's  not  all.  Albert 
and  Hector  brought  us  a  bit  of  news  from  Gallows. 
Just  you  take  my  tip  and  ask  no  questions.  You  take 
the  train  into  Dilborough  and  dine  at  the  'Crown.' 
You  might — I  don't  say  you  will,  but  you  might — 
get  a  bit  of  a  surprise.  If  you  hurry  you'll  catch 
the  7.5." 

Luke  thrust  his  wife's  letter  into  his  pocket,  and 
hurried. 


"No,"  said  the  sad-eyed  waiter,  in  reply  to  Luke's 
enquiry.  "No,  we  do  not  serve  the  dinner  on  Sunday 
night.  In  Dilborough  Sunday  night,  there  is  what 
you  call,  nothing  doing.  You  can  have  a  nice  chop." 

"I  hate  chops,"  said  Luke  moodily.  "All  right,  get 
me  a  chop." 

"The  lady  who  stay  here,  she  have  a  chop  too.  She 
also  say  she  hate  chops.  You  have  to  wait  a  little  time 
perhaps,  because  the  chef  is  out  Sunday  evening.  You 
wait  in  the  drawing-room.  It  is  very  nice.  Very  com- 
fortable. There  is  a  newspaper  of  last  Friday  eve- 
ning." 

Luke  submitted  and  entered  the  fly-haunted  draw- 
ing-room. He  sat  down  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 
Mabel's  letter  had  been  characteristically  unlike  her. 
Her  letters  were  never  in  the  least  bit  like  herself.  That 
was  perhaps  their  only  attraction.  It  was  only  in  the 


84  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

postscript  that  he  seemed  actually  to  hear  her  speak. 

"Poor  Nathan  Samuel!"  he  said  to  himself.  "Poor 
Moses  Nathan  Modecai  Samuel!" 

The  door  opened  and  Jona  came  in,  clad  in  a  be- 
trayed-heroine  tea-gown.  She  looked  beautiful  but 
tragic. 

"Jona,"  he  cried,  springing  to  his  feet. 

She  shrank  back,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands. 

"Don't  speak  to  me,"  she  said.  "Don't  come  near 
me.  I'm  a  leper,  a  pariah,  and  an  outcast." 

"Oh,  look  here,  hang  it  all,  you  can't,  you  know. 
That's  mine.  If  there's  any  lepering  to  be  done,  I  do 
that.  Outcast?  How  do  you  mean  outcast?" 

"Haven't  you  heard?"  she  said. 

"No,"  said  Luke.  "Come  and  sit  on  my  knee,  and 
tell  me  all  your  troubles." 

"I  oughtn't,"  she  said,  but  she  did. 

"You  didn't  turn  up  at  Victoria  yesterday.  Couldn't 
you  leave  your  husband?" 

"I  couldn't,"  she  said.  "I  couldn't,  because  I've  not 
got  a  husband.  And  have  never  had  a  husband.  One 
of  Bill's  previous  wives  started  to  make  a  fuss,  and 
he  made  a  clean  breast  of  it  to  me.  He'd  married  in 
two  different  names  before  he  married  me,  and  both 
wives  are  still  living.  He  went  to  Brighton  on  Satur- 
day to  marry  one  more.  Because  he  wants  to  get  his 
picture,  as  the  peer  convicted  of  trigamy,  on  the  back 
page  of  the  'Daily  Mail,'  with  the  fourth  wife  inset. 
So  you  see  what  has  happened.  It  was  my  fault,  but 


IF  WINTER  DON'T  85 

that's  how  I  come  to  be  in  the  pariah  class.  Can  you 
bear  me  any  longer?" 

"Yes,"  said  Luke,  "you're  not  heavy." 

And  then  the  sad-eyed  waiter  came  in  without  knock- 
ing, and  they  broke  away. 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  the  waiter.  "Perhaps  I  inter- 
rupt a  little.  I  come  to  say  the  chops  is  ready.  Shall 
I  put  the  two  places  close  together?" 

"Very  close*  together,"  said  Luke. 


They  entered  the  dining-room. 

"You  needn't  remain,"  said  Luke  to  the  waiter. 
"We'll  help  ourselves." 

"Ver'  good,"  said  the  waiter.  "I  understand.  I  am 
since  three  years  of  experience  in  the  week-end  busi- 
ness. I  come  when  you  ring — not  before." 

Luke  and  Jona  talked  together  earnestly  for  an  hour. 
Then  they  remembered  they  had  been  intending  to 
dine.  Luke  removed  the  cover  from  the  dish  and 
looked  at  two  large  melancholy  chops,  frozen  hard. 

"Can  we?"  said  Luke. 

"Not  in  this  life,"  said  Jona.    "Get  it  removed." 

Luke  produced  a  visiting-card,  and  wrote  on  the 
back  of  it :  "A  Present  for  a  Good  Dog.  From  Jona 
and  Lukie !"  He  put  the  card  in  the  dish  and  replaced 
the  cover.  Then  he  investigated  the  wine  list,  rang 
the  bell,  and  ordered  champagne  and  dry  biscuits  to 
be  put  in  the  drawing-room. 


86  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

(The  reader  is  requested  to  look  out.  Once  more  the 
numbers  of  the  section  will  be  used  as  a  part  of  the 
sections.  The  price  of  paper  is  still  very  high.) 

"Just  imagine/'  said  Luke.  "Only  this  morning  I 
was  convinced  that  life  was  hell.  Absolute  hell." 

"And  now?"  asked  Jona,  shyly. 

"Now  I  know  that  it's 

7," 
he  said,  and  kissed  her. 

Luke  walked  back.  It  was  some  time  in  the  small 
hours  that  he  entered  his  house  burglariously  by  forc- 
ing open  the  window  of  a  room  that  had  once  been 
called  a  den. 

As  he  sat  at  breakfast  the  next  morning,  Dot  said  : 
"Hope  they  gave  you  a  good  dinner  at  the  'Crown' 
last  night." 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said.  "I  don't  really  remember 
what  we 

8." 

"All  love  and  honey,  what?"  suggested  Dot. 
"Dot,"  said  Luke,  "don't  be  asi- 


"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Dot.     "You  don't  need 
to  pay  any  at- 

10. 

tion  to  my  chaff." 


EPILOGUE 

LUKE  sold  Jawbones  for  a  much  higher  price  than  he 
had  expected. 

"You  see,"  the  agent  explained,  "the  place  is  in  such 
a  perfect  condition.  Everything  up  to  the  mark. 
Absolutely  spotless." 

"Yes,"  said  Luke.  "Mrs.  Sharper  was  an  excellent 
housekeeper.  I've  always  said  so." 

Luke  had  intended  to  pay  Dot  and  Dash  board- 
wages  until  he  was  free  to  marry  Jona,  and  then  to 
take  them  into  his  service  again.  But  this  was  not  to  be. 

"Sorry,"  said  Dot,  "but  it  won't  do.  Of  course  we 
wish  you  every  happiness,  and  no  doubt  in  time  you'll 
get  used  to  not  suffering  so  much,  and  not  being  mis- 
understood so  frequent.  But  me  and  Dash  has  been 
brought  up  respectable,  and  respectable  we  shall  remain. 
I've  no  doubt  your  good  lady  thought  it  was  all  right, 
and  went  to  church  with  him,  and  signed  the  book  and 
all  that.  But  facts  are  facts,  and  the  fact  is  that  for 
years  and  years  she  was  living  the  life  of  open  sin  with 
that  Lord  Tyburn.  No,  we  couldn't  stick  it.  Besides, 
I'm  going  to  marry  Hector  to  take  entire  charge  of  a 
small  flat,  one  in  family,  no  children  or  washing,  every 
Sunday,  and  frequent  outings.  And  my  sister's  doing 
the  same  with  Albert.  All  the  same,  here's  luck." 

87 


88  IF  WINTER  DON'T 

Our  friend,  Mr.  Alfred  Jingle,  solicitor,  arranged 
everything  splendidly.  He  prevented  Luke  from  insert- 
ing, in  a  moment  of  enthusiasm,  an  advertisement 
under  the  Fashionable  Intelligence  in  the  daily  press 
that  a  divorce  had  been  arranged  and  would  shortly 
take  place,  between  Luke  Sharper,  Esq.,  formerly  of 
Jawbones,  Halfpenny  Hole,  and  Mabel,  his  wife.  The 
case  was  undefended,  and  the  day  after  the  decree  was 
made  absolute  Luke  married  Jona. 

Nor  did  Mr.  Alfred  Jingle  forget,  when  he  made 
out  his  bill  of  costs,  to  include  in  his  out-of-pocket 
expenses,  the  cost  of  certain  luncheons  and  drinks 
which  Mr.  Sharper  would,  no  doubt,  have  defrayed 
had  he  not  at  that  time  been  in  a  condition  of  absent- 
mindedness  induced  by  martyrdom. 

Not  only  did  Lord  Tyburn  succeed  in  getting  his 
photograph  on  to  the  back  page  of  the  "Daily  Mail." 
There  was  also  another  photograph  of  the  four  ladies 
whom  he  had  married,  reading  from  left  to  right.  He 
did  everything  well. 


THE  END 


